


Hero of Legend

by ScriptrixDraconum



Series: Hero [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Children, Comfort/Angst, Dragons, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Drama, Fantasy, Growing Old, Growing Old Together, Illnesses, Mages, Magic, Modern Girl in Skyrim, Modern Insert, Modern OC, Multi, Museums, Realistic, Romance, Shamanism, Undead, modern to medieval
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 20:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 54,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13489395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptrixDraconum/pseuds/ScriptrixDraconum
Summary: (Hero Series Book 4)As a mother, I will do all that I can to guide and protect my children. As Dragonborn, I will do all that I can to protect Skyrim, and its people who call me a legend. They sing songs about me, of my triumphs. But I could never have accomplished what I did without the help of others. Some things, however, only a Dragonborn can do. And when the sky darkens under Alduin’s wings, I will be ready. I will be waiting. And I will give the bards one more tale.Extended Description:Being a museum curator is easy. Dealing with all of life’s hardships is not. When it finally seems that Deborah can take a breath, the world is on fire again.TL;DR:The following story is what happens when a modern-day non-combat-ready woman gets ripped into another reality where coffee and toilet paper do not exist but dragons and the undead do.Disclaimer:All Skyrim in-game characters, themes, questline plots etc. are property of Bethesda Softworks. No infringement intended.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> (foreground art by [@foxconstellation](https://tmblr.co/mutTjKqoQ2vTI3J4hcJvZBw))
> 
> Welcome back, lovely readers! Here begins the fourth and final book of the Hero Series, the book that followed “Hero of Light”. I strongly recommend reading the previous books before this one, as background information as far as characters and some events go is fairly important (though not crucial). However, as usual, knowledge of Elder Scrolls lore or games is not necessary to enjoy this series. 
> 
> Unlike the previous books, “Hero of Light” ended on a happy note. Everything is going generally well for Deborah, but life is never all that stagnant, is it? If it were, that wouldn’t be a very interesting tale.
> 
> I'd love to hear from my readers. Post a comment to let me know what you thought of the first three books, and how the events affected you. As always, I greatly appreciate constructive criticism!
> 
> I will be updating this story as the segments (story arcs) are completed. Keep tabs on updates via following this story or following me on tumblr: [scrptrx](http://scrptrx.tumblr.com).
> 
> This story will not contain some tags to avoid spoilers.

 

 

**— HERO OF LEGEND —**

**— 1 —**

**_PRELUDE_ **

 

 

 

****

**Chapter 1**

“This is crazy,” grumbled Stenvar as he watched me. “I still think you should wait.”

Into a large knapsack I stuffed fur leggings and a cloak, the one gifted to me by the Skaal, and a hoard of travel food. Hard cheese, dried bread, salted and dried fish, smoked salmon, cabbage, and apples.

“If I wait,” I said, “I will be too big to travel comfortably. I could deliver early. If I wait longer than that, I’d have a baby at my breast. The time is now, or a year or so from now. I choose now.”

“You shouldn’t be exertin’ yourself, let alone ridin’ a horse long-distance. Damn it, Deborah. Gods know how long I’ve waited for a child of my own. Don’t risk its life for some mystery on a mountain.”

I smiled at Stenvar and walked up to him, cradled his pouting cheeks in my palms, and kissed his frown. His grey beard and moustache tickled my lips.

“I’ll be fine, Stenvar. I’ll have you to protect me.” I smirked before returning to my packing.

“Damn right you will. I’ll die before losin’ you and the babe to ice wraiths or a fucking frost troll.”

Ice wraiths, otherwise known to me as ghostly snake-like creatures that inhabited Snow Throat. The malignant spirits of those who died on the mountain. I had previously told Stenvar of the creatures Ingjard and I faced when hiking up to High Hrothgar.

“My hero,” I breathed, feigning the distressed damsel.

Stenvar sat on the foot of the bed, arms crossed. He stared at my fur boots, set aside at the bedroom door. “You should bring others with you. The Tongues, and Altanir and Neriwen, if they’re still around.”

“Oh, the Tongues, definitely. Last I knew they were still at the palace, learning what they can from Balgruuf.”

“I’m sure the Jarl will appreciate the break.”

I laughed. “I can’t make them come, though. I’ll do what I can to convince them but it is their life to do with as they want.”

“They’re Tongues. They have a sacred duty.”

“Hmph. Darling, I know a thing or two about sacred duty. They still have a choice. Anyway, I’ll ask Altanir and Neriwen, but they owe me no more aid. They’ve earned their peace. And Altanir still isn’t over Serana’s disappearance.”

 _Disappearance_ , I said, as if I wasn’t certain she had been turned to dust when the sun was returned. However, no one had seen any pile of ash. She had simply vanished.

“Perhaps a cart will be better than horses for everyone,” Stenvar said. “Load the cart with people and supplies. We’ll need a lot, seeming how Ivarstead is still a pile of ash, last I heard.”

“Supplies for the journey round, then, and a few days extra.”

Stenvar and I exchanged a neutral look. He finally seemed on board with the idea of my trek.

“I still think this is crazy,” he said.

Alright, maybe not completely on board.

. . . . . .

Virald was wailing again. He had good days and bad. Today was a bad day; even Morgana couldn’t calm him, and she had a way with distressed infants that none of us could replicate.

“I don’t blame you, wanting a vacation from that,” said Bird, peering in from the hallway, chin resting on my shoulder. His long, silken blonde hair spilled forward onto my chest.

I chuckled. “Sure you can handle him?”

He shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Anyway, we’ve got a full house. Plenty of adults to shuffle the children around.” He walked toward the wall and leaned against it, arms crossed. “Just make sure you come back,” he added with his distinct fishhook grin.

I returned his smile and looked again at the ongoing attempts Morgana made to calm my son. Not hungry, not bored, not tired, clean diaper, no detectable illness. Eventually Morgana voiced her frustration and laid Virald in his basinet.

“I’m sorry,” she said, red-faced and exasperated. Her red curls bounced as she shook her head and left the room. “My ears cannot take anymore. I need a break.” She gripped my shoulder as she turned down the hallway, then grabbed at her head and groaned.

“Good luck, mama,” said Bird before leaving for his own room. “He’s yours while you’re here!” He closed his door behind him.

 

My off-tune and poorly-remembered American lullabies seemed to calm Virald somewhat. Perhaps he was simply perplexed at this odd tongue he was hearing. But his wailing had waned into something more of a whine, and was more sporadic. I tested various triggers – if things startled him, or tickled or physically irritated him – but as far as I could tell, his upset was random.

After perhaps an hour, Stenvar creeped up behind me, so quiet I nearly jumped at the small fright. His hand upon my shoulder settled me.

“May I?” he asked, voice low.

He certainly didn’t have to ask me twice. I needed to use the latrine, anyway. I handed the sleepless child to Stenvar, who easily cradled the boy’s head in his large hand.

An empty bladder later, I returned upstairs and, as I ascended, heard what sounded like Stenvar singing, but quietly, barely over a whisper, audible over the unexpected absence of infantile wailing. I crept down the hallway, thankful for floorboards that did not creak. Leaning against the wall, I listened through the open door.

“My little warrior,” he crooned. “Do not fear the dragon in your dreams, little warrior. I am here, little warrior. Together we will fight. The dragon cannot win.”

The lullaby, if that’s what it was, repeated, softer each time, until all I could hear was birdsong, and Krikit barking, outside.

The near-silence was broken by soft footfalls as Stenvar exited the nursery. It was my turn to unintentionally startle him. He jumped, smiled, and laughed at his own small fright.

“You did it,” I said as his hand found mine. “Was that some magical spell-song?” I asked, half joking.

He chuckled under his breath. “Nah. Just something I’ve heard sung to little ones.”

“Ah. Well.” I pulled him toward me until his body pinned me to the wall. “Maybe he responds well to people who can actually carry a tune.”

His nose brushed against mine. “He just needed to know he needn’t be afraid.”

“He’s a bit young to understand.”

Stenvar wrapped his arms around my waist, and said, “You’re right. It’s me. Ol’ Stenvar and his magical voice.”

“Hmm. Is there anything else about you that is magical, Stenvar Gray-Mane?”

He huffed a laugh. With his forehead pressed to mine, he sang low, different words to the same tune with which he had lulled Virald into slumber.

“My sweetheart,” he crooned. “I am who I am because of you, sweetheart. You’re my magic, sweetheart.” He pressed a palm to my lower abdomen, and finished the tune. “And it is here with you,” he sang, “where I find happiness.”

We came together in a sweet, lengthy embrace. Melded together, we tiptoed our way into our bedroom, grinning and giggling between ardent kisses, careful not to wake the baby.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 

Altanir knew a guy who knew a gal who owned a cart for rent, and two horses to pull it. The beefy animals were built to pull a load of seven people and their supplies. The plan was to drive the horses to Ivarstead where Neriwen and Altanir would guard them and wait for our return.

On the journey east, past the southern slope of the mountain, we encountered exactly five people, all part of the same Dawnguard troop. All was well, they reported. No vampires, and the people in nearby villages were doing fine, as fine as one can be when in mourning. But the country’s harvest had been a good one and there was more than enough food to go around. There were few people, and therefore few people to feed.

Ivarstead was indeed still a ruin, though with several hunters enjoying what little shelter was left behind. They caused no trouble for us, and even traded some fresh meat for other food.

The hike to High Hrothgar was relatively easy, even in the rain which progressively turned to snow as we climbed. The Tongues, Josse, Therodyn, and Gartharr – who I still thought of in my head as Jess, Theo, and Garry – were eager to see the home of the Greybeards after learning so much about them from myself and from Jarl Balgruuf.

Josse and Gartharr were rather averse to the idea of giving up their past lives for one of solitude, study, and prayer, but I made it clear to them that they were Tongues, not Greybeards. There was a difference, albeit slight. They could already wield The Voice thanks to Kyne. Most people required years of study to learn a single word. How much they learned at High Hrothgar would be up to them and them alone, if they stayed. But I would not stay to teach them, nor did Balgruuf have much more wisdom to bestow unto them.

However, if I was right, someone or something important was atop Snow Throat, and like Paarthurnax was, could be a source of knowledge in all things _Thu’um_.

The dragons inside me felt it, the presence. Like a flame to a moth the presence on the precipice called to me. Paarthurnax’s urge was relentless.

The broken doors of the fortress remained wide open, the way I had left them. Inside the foyer was snow and ice and other windswept debris. We lit some braziers, closed the doors as best we could, and unloaded our packs. Immediately I walked to the steps where I had carved epitaphs for the fallen. The scratchings remained, perfectly legible.

“Whatever happened to these Blades that Torug was working with?” asked Josse.

“I have no idea,” I answered. “Either they became vampires, or Torug’s vampires killed them, or they ran, disbanded. I don’t remember seeing any at the battle at the castle.”

“Why did they want to kill Paarthurnax?” she asked as we read his epitaph.

I hadn’t known, but Paarthurnax learned why upon merging souls with Torug. The Blades had a longstanding grudge against the white dragon for fighting alongside Alduin millennia ago. The Blades had considered it their duty to kill all dragons, but Paarthurnax in particular. They just hadn’t known where he was. Torug, who could benefit greatly from such a deed, had no reason not to help.

“The Blades were killing all dragons,” I chose as my answer.

The day was late, and I was tired. We set about cooking ourselves some of the hunter’s venison in a stew of apples and sodden bread, and promptly retired. I led Stenvar to the single bedroom I was given during my previous time here, where we managed to share the mattress.

. . . . . .

I left early that morning while the halls were still quiet. In the dark, I scooped up my warm clothes, cloaks and knapsack, and began my journey up to the summit. I left a note for Stenvar in the room. I told him not to follow.

The sky had cleared from yesterday’s storms and the sun warmed me under my furs. I had with me a canteen and some food, my only weapon a dagger tucked at my side, under my cloak.

The hike was an easy one. This time, no magical blizzard barred my way. The mountain slopes were devoid of all life. There was no reason for me to Shout.

I came to the place where the rock bridge had been, the one I had formed with my mind. It had collapsed, refilling the crevasse. But something else had happened. There were more rocks and small boulders than I had remembered. There must have been a cave-in of sorts. Crumbled rock and ice, mostly covered with snow, now filled the widened crevasse almost enough to cross without any climbing. A gentle slope. I tested its resistant. I stepped. I stomped. The rocks held, maybe filling the gap all the way to its bottom.

The sense of something magical atop Snow Throat grew stronger the higher I hiked. I was excited. Worried. My mind raced. I was all a-tingle.

My head was light, breath short, and hands shaking as I trudged on, low on oxygen, no doubt. I blamed the pregnancy. Perhaps it was nerves. Both. But a constant soothing presence from within tried to calm me with wordless reassurances.

Paarthurnax’s thoughts were my quickly becoming my own. His memories and feelings and desires were becoming my own. Our souls were forever melded and soon I would not be able to feel his presence at all; soon, Paarthurnax would be me, and I would be him. But just as had happened with all other dragons’ and Dragonborns’ souls that I took in, my personality and sense of self would remain dominant. Paarthurnax made sure of that.

A harsh wind picked up just as I rounded the final crag, buffeting me enough to seek the support of the rockface and wait out the gust. The skin of my face was dry and stinging, in sore need of an application of the fat-based moisturizer I had bought from Whiterun’s alchemist.

When the wind calmed, I made the final ascent. The Throat of the World gleamed a blinding, pristine white – nothing, and no one, was atop the mountain. I noted the familiar features – the Word Wall, the Time Wound, and Paarthurnax’s preferred perch, the craggy western peak. The lack of expected presence on the mountaintop was disheartening. I didn’t need to use a spell or Shout or dragon sense to know nothing was up here, anymore.

 _The wind_.

It wasn’t a whisper, the voice. It was a thought. A thing known. My own subconscious.

“Something about the wind,” I said, to myself as much as to Paarthurnax.

 _Follow the wind_.

I made a face to the voice – a scrunched, _whatcha talkin’ ‘bout_ face. “That literally makes no sense. I can’t fly, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Inside my mind, as another’s reaction as well as my own, I heard a deep, drawn-out sigh.

“Fine,” I said, grumpy.

I sat down on the snow before the Word Wall, blocked from the worst of the summit’s wind.

“Think on the wind. The wind, the wind.”

I was gazing west, in the direction the wind had blown – was always blowing, up here. Only once in a while did the direction shift. The gust had shoved me to the crag, toward the west. The wind was in the west. Why did I need to know this?

“The thing went west.” I answered my own question, probably. Whatever had been up here was scared away by my approach. Apparently I was scary.

Maybe it was testing me.

Paarthurnax had tested me.

“Gods. Is it a dragon? You were right, pal. I owe you mammoth steak.”

My stomach growled. I fed it some smoked salmon wrapped in cabbage, which was what the tiny human inside me wanted to eat, lately. None of those melty cheese sandwiches I had craved with Flavia. I was just happy the fetus craved anything at all. Virald hadn’t wanted any food, as a fetus.

Thinking of the children was a mistake. Crying on top of a frozen mountain was a mistake.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Puppies,” I muttered. “Puppies. Hot springs. Spiced wine. Marc and Bird being obnoxiously cute. Morgana and Ash being obnoxiously cute. Stenvar’s tattoos. The museum. Puppies. Puppies.”

Having had enough of failed meditation, and I stood and walked toward the western summit and climbed Paarthurnax’s peak.

There was a shelf where Paarthurnax had often lay, but it was low and did not allow one to see over the top. A sure foothold to the north of the peak aided a short climb, and soon enough a view of Whiterun Hold came into view, however veiled by haze.

The city of Whiterun splayed out like a miniature model, looking perfect in its stillness. I tried to sense the goings-on below, but it was too far.

The bright blue sky offered no more clue as to why I had decided that looking west was necessary.

“What in the gods’ names were you thinkin’?” came a stern, deep voice from below. The suddenness of the sound startled me and I nearly lost my grip on the rock.

Stark against the glistening white of the summit was the steel-clad form of Stenvar, shining in the sunlight, hands on his hips and a glower on his face. Stenvar wore no helmet, and I wondered if his balding, shaved head was cold.

Behind him closed in dark-haired Josse, then fair-haired and skinny Therodyn alongside Gartharr, whose greying curls were partially hidden by his helm.

“Hey,” I said. I smiled down at them, still clinging to my perch.

“Heyyy,” Josse replied, waving.

“Please, Deb,” said Stenvar. “Get down from there. One slip on the ice....” His expression was dour. I couldn’t say no to that.

Without a remark, I descended, securing my footing along the way without issue.

“I was looking for something,” I said as I approached the group. “Whatever was up here left before I reached the top.”

Stenvar grasped my upper arms and gazed at me before pulling me toward him in an embrace. I allowed him to do so, despite my slight annoyance. I peeled myself away.

“It didn’t take you all very long to show up,” I said, deliberately accusatory. “I asked you not to follow, Stenvar. Whatever was here might have sensed your approach.”

“Perhaps,” Stenvar said, “whatever was up here did not want to be found, not even by you.”

Now it was my turn to glower.

I was a breath away from shooing the lot when a rumble encasing the dragon word for fire thundered from somewhere in the near distance. The ground shook, slightly. I immediately looked to Therodyn, thinking he had learned a new word and, like the Greybeards, might have caused the small earthquake. But the young man’s mouth was shut, his eyes as wide as the others’.

 _Dragons greet dragons with fire_ , the thought stated.

I turned away from the group, lifted my chin to the sky, and Shouted a single word: _Yol_. The resulting burst of flame was short-lived, sending a fireball toward the heavens that dissipated within seconds.

But it was enough, I knew. A nearby dragon would have heard this, seen it, felt it.

I waited.

The three Tongues looked at me like I had just walked on water, or some similar miracle. Had they not witnessed that particular Shout, yet? I couldn’t recall. Likely, they wouldn’t have witnessed any Shout from Jarl Balgruuf, who saved his _Thu’um_ for a time of what the Greybeard’s liked to call True Need.

I wasn’t so frugal.

An answering rumbling word again sounded from an unseen place, but that time my senses zeroed in on a feeling, a guess, a hint: down.

I made for the path down the mountain, the four interlopers following. The descent was easy and smooth, particularly with the new rockfall filling in the gaping crevasse. The nearer to the courtyard we came, the stronger my sense of a presence grew.

“It’s a dragon,” I said to the group, sure of it, this time. I could literally feel it in my bones.

“Fuck yes,” I heard Josse murmur.

As we walked, I laid out my instructions. “It might not want to be approached. It might not be friendly. Hold back a fair distance. Don’t follow me if I approach it.”

The group made no protests, and we continued, eager.

I had no reason to believe this dragon was unfriendly. I would have sensed as much. This dragon was not Alduin, but I could sense its age nonetheless.

The dragon was an ancient.

The path down to the courtyard was direct, and through the passage in the rocks I saw a bright, brick-red form contrast against the snow. I stopped in my tracks, just for a moment, and then continued.

Hope and wonder and curiosity set my adrenaline going. The thought immediately entered my mind of the red dragon who had, no less than three times, come to fight with me, for me, for those I considered allies. Stenvar was there each time. He would remember.

Stepping into the courtyard, I let my gaze flow over the massive body straight ahead. Its wings were tucked and its head bowed. It was nosing something.

No. It was eating something.

Stepping closer I could see the charred carcass of a mountain goat.

 _Dragons don’t need to eat_ , Paarthurnax had related to me, once, in not so many words. _But sometimes they do, anyway._

Beside the charred mountain goat was the body of another mountain goat, which appeared to be piled on top of yet another mountain goat. These two were uncharred.

I made my way to the front of the dragon, observing it eating. Instead of taking the entire goat into its mouth, which it could have, it chomped delicately upon one section at a time. Hindquarters, midsection, forelimbs, head. Within moments the charred goat had disappeared.

“ _Drem yol lok_ ,” the dragon said in a rough, rumbling voice. It backed away from the two piled mountain goats, spinning fully towards me and eyeing me with its head turned sideways. The dragon opened its mouth, baring a gap-toothed maw. I wasn’t sure what I expected. Perhaps more dragonspeak. Perhaps to be burned alive. I did not, however, expect the dragon to say, in unsure Norren, “Goat, mortal eat, yes?”

After a gasp, Josse asked, “Did that dragon just... speak?”

“That dragon just spoke,” replied Gartharr.

“Ysmir’s beard,” Stenvar breathed.

Therodyn chuckled, and the mountain rumbled in response.

I approached the red dragon, stupefied and, frankly, in awe. Steam billowed from its nostrils at a slow, steady pace. I could feel its strong, ancient magic, and sensed its calm.

“It’s you,” I said to the dragon, breath fogging before me. “You’ve been... following me. Helping me.” I stopped my approach just before its massive head. Heat radiated from its snout. I stared the beast down as it if couldn’t swallow me in a heartbeat. “Why?” I asked. “Why help me? Why... call me here? Who are you?” My memory, and Paarthurnax within, could not or would not tell me. But he and the other dragons were stirring, excited.

The dragon before me laughed, such as it was – breath rushed from its snout onto my face, smelling of meat, and it sounded a low grunt.

“Why?” it asked. “Old decision. _Aarsejoor_. Who? Wind-swept. _Sahlo zul. Folaas._ What _Dovahkiin_ call dragon?”

The dragon spoke in a mix of broken Norren and its own tongue. I waited for the dragons within me to help translate, waited for them to oblige me with a name, but in their frenzy they were no more than a jumbled mess of static.

“I do not know you,” I said. “They do not know you. They only sense you.”

The dragon snorted again. “Many _dovahhe_. _Geh_. Many many now. _Mulaag. In. Aarsejoor. Drem._ Dragon help mortal, before, now. More now. Goat, yes?”

I looked again to the pile of goats, then looked back to my companions standing several meters behind me. “He’s offering us the goats,” I told them. “They should be butchered now, I suppose.”

Josse and Stenvar both nodded, and with tentative steps, retrieved the two goats and dragged them off to the side before setting about field-dressing them, side-eyeing me and the dragon all the while.

“Alright,” I said to the dragon. “I understand that you want to help me. But I still don’t understand why, and why we had to meet here. Could you not have come to the ground? I had to come meet you all the way up here?”

“ _Laanne!”_ the dragon responded with a quaking huff that might have been a laugh. “Dragons meet on mountain, safeguard. On ground, fear dragon. Mountain, only _Dovahkiin_. _Dovahhe ahrk fahdonne._ Trust _._ ”

“Right. Only I would come up here to meet you. Only I could sense you, up here.”

“ _Geh_.”

“And yes,” I said, “you can trust my friends.”

“You can understand the beast?” asked Gartharr.

I peered around and answered, “Yes, some of it.”

“ _Paarthurnax ni het_ ,” the dragon said, and I turned back to it.

I understood those words. I didn’t, however, know immediately how to respond to them. “Paarthurnax is here, actually,” I said. “He lives in me. His soul is my soul. I can speak for him.”

A massive red tail lifted and thudded to the snowy ground. Was that dissent? Disappointment? Anger?

I course corrected. “I did not kill him,” I said quickly. “I killed the one who killed him. The other Dragonborn. The Orsimer, Torug. Did you know him, too?”

The dragon blinked, and answered, “ _Ni_.” No.

“You must have felt his presence,” I said, “at the battle at the castle, on that island to the northwest. That was where I killed the other Dragonborn.”

“ _Ogiim_ ,” it said. “Feel orc, before. Fear orc, before. Orc fear Alduin. Alduin fear orc. _Alduin bovul, vonum._ Alduin wait.”

Fear wrangled my throat, and I gulped. “Alduin waits for what?”

The dragon blinked its golden eyes again and let its maw fall ajar before it snapped shut and opened once more. “Alduin call dragons. Orc slay dragons. _Dovahkiin_ slay orc. No dragons. Alduin wait.”

“Are you saying that Alduin is waiting for dragons? More dragons?”

“ _Geh_. Belief. _Ni mindok_.”

“You’re not sure. Alright. Is that why you’re here? Why you’ve been helping me? Guarding me? Is it something to do with Alduin?”

“Old decision,” it repeated.

“Yes, you’ve said that. What decision? Am I supposed to know you?”

“Hold on,” came Stenvar’s voice. Snow crunched under his feet as he walked towards me. He crumbled snow between his palms to wipe them clean of goat blood. “A red dragon that helps people. Gods,” he said through breathy laughs, “I can’t believe I didn’t realize.” The man approached the dragon, even closer than I stood. He reached out to its snout, overly trusting, I thought, and landed a palm between its nostrils.

The dragon did not flinch or move or blink, did not signal in any way that this was a mistake on Stenvar’s part. Like me, dragons likely sensed intent. And Stenvar always had the purest of intents.

“You’re the crown jewel,” the man whispered. “Aren’t you? Nafaalilargus.”

The dragon snorted a laugh and backed away a single pace. “ _Sahlo zul_ ,” it said again. And with the dragons in my mind settled, I could now understand the meaning of those two words: weak voice.

“What did you say to him?” I asked Stenvar. “Na-fa-li-lar-gus? What is that? He said you have a weak voice.”

Stenvar laughed. “Weak, eh? I don’t know what he means by that. Everyone always tells me I’m too loud.”

“Because you are,” said Josse, smirking from afar, still working on the goats.

“I don’t think that’s what it meant,” I said. “When I asked who he was, he wanted to know what I would call him. Wind-swept, he said he was.”

“You think its name is Wind-Swept?”

“No, Stenvar. I think his name has been wind-swept. Destroyed.”

The man blinked at me, then turned back to the dragon, who now stood taller, prouder than before, but vulnerable, its arched neck exposing its chest.

“Is your name not Nafaalilargus?” Stenvar asked. “Nafaa-aalilaa-aargus,” he sang, with more notes than there were syllables, “downing ships with breath of fire. Nafaa-aalilaa-aargus, ruby soldier hero-friend.”

“Stop showing off,” Josse hollered.

I chuckled.

The sellsword turned back to the dragon, and asked, “That isn’t you?”

The dragon turned to me, and once more, asked, “What _Dovahkiin_ call dragon?”

My brain was beginning to ache with the tumult within and without. Whispers meandered through the crevasses, surfing along nerves until thoughts formed into sounds that demanded to be spoken.

Almost of their own accord, the words flowed into the gentle mountain breeze.

“Nahfahlaar,” I said.

“But you died,” said Stenvar. “I’ve read the stories.”

I looked to the man, then to the dragon. It snorted, and said, “Die? Sleep. Alduin call dragon. Dragon fly, find _Dovahkiin._ Old decision, new.”

“I-I don’t understand,” I said. “You slept?” To Stenvar I asked, “Is this a... a famous dragon?”

“This is the dragon that helped Tiber Septim,” said Stenvar. “Won the Battle of Hunding Bay in Stros M’Kai, in Hammerfell.”

“Oh,” I said, not understanding anything Stenvar was telling me, except the Hammerfell part.

“Mortal protect dragon,” said Nahfahlaar. “Dragon protect mortal. _Dovahkiin ni ah—fron_.”

“Yeah, kin not hunter, I’ve heard that one before. You want me to protect you? But you’ve been protecting me.”

“Dragon protect _Dovahkiin_. _Dovahkiin_ slay Alduin. Protect _dov_.”

“You... need protection from Alduin?”

Nahfahlaar lowered his head to my level and said, “ _Geh_. _Dov_. _Laas_.”

I looked around me at Stenvar and the Tongues, each captivated by the conversation. And then, I had a thought. To the dragon, I asked, “Do you know much about the Way of the Voice? I have three Tongues here that need training.”

The dragon laughed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes part one of this book. You'll have to wait for the second part. After all, there's a lot of years between now and then. Lots of happy, uneventful years...
> 
> \----
> 
> Shout out to my friends at Thuum.org. We're good, but we're not that good. We still aren't sure what Nahfahlaar means. It's either nah fahl aar or nah fah laar, which changes its meaning somewhat. And we don't know what fahl or laar mean. I'd like to simply choose one or the other, but I won't.
> 
> Aarsejoor = servant of the mortal  
> Sahlo zul = weak voice  
> Folaas = incorrect  
> Dovahhe = dragons  
> Geh = yes  
> Mulaag = strong/power  
> In = master  
> Drem = peace  
> Laanne = questions  
> ahrk fahdonne = and friends  
> Ogiim = orc  
> Alduin bovul, vonum = Alduin fled, hid  
> Dovahkiin ni ah—fron = dragonborn not hunter, kin  
> Dov = dragonkind  
> Laas = life


	3. Love

 

**— 2 —**

**_LOVE_ **

**Chapter 3**

 

In a small room within the Temple of Kynareth, I stood before a tall mirror, fussing over my dress. The mirror was cracked and flaking, making everything look worse than it was. Or so I hoped.

No matter what I did, no matter the loosening or tightening of the various ribbons and toggles, I felt like, and resembled, a manatee in blue. The Skyrim equivalent, though more resembling a walrus, was called a horker. I just lacked the tusks. Never in all my pregnancies had I gained so much weight. I blamed Stenvar. It was his child, after all.

Our third.

“They’re ready for you, mama.” Sara had scampered into the room, all smiles and decked in a new deep-red dress, her favorite color. Upon her head of long brown hair she wore a crown of fresh frost mirram leaves mixed with the yellow, striped dragon’s tongue flower.

“Alright, love,” I said with a sigh. “How does your father look?”

Sara nearly bounced where she stood in the doorway. “Daddy’s smiling allll the time.”

I laughed. “I bet he is. Can you go get Uncle Marc for me? Thanks, sweetie.”

Sara disappeared into the temple hallway, and I recommenced my fidgeting and fussing.

“You look fine, ma,” said Vara, hopping down from the stool to stand beside me at the mirror.

The girl looked nothing like her sister, so little in fact that no one believed they were twins. Sara inherited my blue eyes and brown hair, while Vara inherited her father’s grey-green eyes and his peculiar familial trait – her hair had been grey from the day she was born; she looked a lot like her aunt (for that was what they called her), Stenvar’s cousin, Olfina.

The girls’ differences didn’t stop there. At only eight years old, the pair were already showing signs of having vastly different interests. Sara was my little shadow, eager to help around the museum. She also had an active interest in plants, just gardening for now, and had a decent eye with the bow and arrow. Vara was Stenvar’s shadow. She started practicing with a wooden sword at four years old. She considered herself a Companion in training. She even had the attention of the current Harbinger, the leader of the warrior guild in Whiterun.

Vara was not wearing a dress. She hadn’t worn a dress since she was three, complaining anytime someone put one on her. She wanted to dress like her daddy. She wore one of her better outfits, today, a doeskin sleeveless tunic with matching trousers, embroidered with a simple but pleasant vining design. She kept her grey hair tied back in a long braid.

My dress, a typical nice dress for Whiterun I was told, was a medium-blue cotton thing with wooden toggles in the back and dark blue strips that accented the entire getup. They also helped define my curves. My vast, chubbly curves. I hadn’t been this big since I was on Earth.

“I’m huge,” I said to Vara. “I never gained this much weight with you or your siblings.”

“Morgana says it means the baby is a boy.”

I frowned. “I don’t know. Virald wasn’t a hungry baby.”

“Maybe it’s more twins!” she said, beaming.

I spun round to her. “Don’t you dare.”

Marcurio walked in following Sara. Trailing behind the two was Flavia, tall and lean, wearing her favorite cream-colored dress. Her pale blonde hair, as usual, was up in a tidy, delicate bun.

“You called?” Marcurio asked, grinning. He was wearing the typical robes of a priest of Arkay, but unlike most priests, he sported several pieces of gold jewelry, including a few earrings. His hair was just starting to grey, and his signature soul-patched goatee remained. The man had barely aged a day.

“Marc,” I said in a relieved sigh, “I look absolutely awful. Help me.”

“You look amazing,” he claimed. “Stenvar will think so, too. Trust me. Now, come on. He’s been waiting.” Marcurio leaned in, then added, “He’s been waiting for more than ten years.” He chuckled.

Smirking, I turned back to the mirror. Perhaps my obsession with how I looked stemmed from the _perfect day_ pressure that Earth weddings had. Such a thing didn’t exist in Skyrim, at least for the common folk. Maybe jarl’s weddings were fancy, organized, and intentionally nerve-wracking.

A fist grabbed at my diaphragm and pulled inward, and I felt faint. Time never healed that wound.

My aversion to weddings caused me to delay my marriage to Stenvar for more than five years, shelving several proposals, and twice as many half-facetious requests. The man just really wanted to be married.

After a few minutes of Marcurio redoing my hair from up to down, and loosening the dress around my chest and shoulders – which miraculously made everything look better – he left with Vara and Flavia to tell Stenvar all was well and that I’d be out shortly.

This was what I told them, anyway.

That small room had a hold on me. I felt safe in its four walls. Time stood still in this peaceful temple with the calming sound of the fountain tinkling in the main hall.

“Mama?” asked Sara.

“Hmm?” I sounded as I drank some water.

“Do you love Daddy as much as you loved Viri’s daddy?”

I nearly choked on the water. “What do you mean? Of course I love your father. Why would you ask such a question?”

The girl, seated on a chair, shrugged and looked to her feet. “Viri says you loved his daddy the most. That you and him were soulmates and that’s why you took forever to marry Daddy. Uncle Bird told me what a soulmate means. Is it true, mama?” Sara looked up at me, her blue eyes glimmering. “Is Daddy not your soulmate?”

I frowned, deeply, and had to collect myself a moment. I sat on the stool, and faced my daughter.

“Where did Virald learn this word? Soulmate. Do you know?”

“From Sighulf.”

“And where did Sighulf hear it?”

“From his mama, talking about her and his daddy.”

I exhaled slowly, hands on my knees, fingertips digging into the rough cotton of the dress. “Do you think people only get one soulmate?” I asked her.

Sara’s brow creased. “I don’t know.”

“Well, let me ask you this. What’s your favorite food?”

“Jazbay pie!”

I grinned. “Right! Now, think very hard. Do have a second favorite food?”

She thought a moment. “Honey treats!”

I laughed, and then groaned. My daughter was going to have cavities, for certain. “Right. So, you have two favorite foods. Now, think very, _very_ hard. Does the amount that you love jazybay pie lessen your love of honey treats?”

Sara gazed at me as the gears in her brain spun and connected. Her smile softened to something more neutral, and with a face matching Stenvar’s in its seriousness, she answered, “No. No, I like them both. They’re both my favorites. But...”

“But?”

She was frowning. “It’s not the same. Food and people aren’t the same.”

I nodded. “That’s right. I’m sorry, I couldn’t think of a better comparison. I think I’m just hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

We laughed.

Smiling, I stroked my daughter’s hair. ”I loved Virald’s father very much. That will never change. Daddy knows this. They were even friends, in the end. Did you know that?”

She shook her head.

“Well, they were. And, you know, I fell in love with your father very, very soon after meeting him. We were fast friends, like you and Sighulf.” I smiled at the thought of Ralof’s son. “Your father was... is one of the best things that ever happened in my life, and one of the best people I’ve ever known. I think the gods sent him to me. He was always very good to me, from the very start. Virald’s father was no less good, no less loving. Yrsarald meant, will always mean so much to me. But do you understand? Neither of them is higher or lower than the other. Loving two different things, two different people is normal. Understand?”

Sara nodded so vigorously a flower fell from her crown.

“Alright then.” I stood, and offered Sara my hand. “What do you say? Should I go marry your father, finally?”

She nodded again, grinning.

 

The music playing from the courtyard shifted from upbeat and lively to something mellow, sweet. I immediately found Jon Battle-Born, Stenvar’s cousin-in-law, playing his lute and standing next to Olfina and their children, Vandir and Skaldara.

There was a rumor, years ago, that absolutely everyone was having twins. People claimed it was a result of Kyne blessing the country. After Jarl Balgruuf had told his people to be fruitful and multiply, I hadn’t discounted the notion that the fertility goddess was listening. While I had no proof anyone else but Olfina and I had birthed twins that year – I had not looked into the matter – I did know that Skyrim’s population, which had been halved, was recovering nicely thanks to a high birth rate and high influx of people from Cyrodiil. Human, Mer, Orsimer, Khajiit, and Argonian alike.

But that was another matter.

More musicians joined Jon. A drummer, a flautist, and someone playing an instrument not unlike a sitar. And with them was Ash, also playing lute, his different from Jon’s – the bass guitar of Skyrim.

Sara walked me down the aisle, if one could call it that, between rows of onlookers from the door of the temple to the center of the courtyard where Gildergreen stood tall and in bloom. The sweet summer breeze knocked petals off occasionally, creating a flurry of pink. My gaze followed a petal as it fluttered down, crossing over Stenvar’s face.

He was smiling. That serene, soft smile which showed more in his eyes, crow’s feet crinkled. He was wearing new lightweight summer clothes – doeskin trousers, and a white cotton shirt embroidered with typical Nordic knotwork designs. It was loose in the front, showing a bit of his tattoo and the top of his Dibellan amulet. His grey beard had been trimmed close to the jaw.

Stenvar had never looked so dashing.

He blindly reached for my hands, and I must have missed a dozen heartbeats as the music had gained lyrics, and was mid-phrase.

“Cast your gaze to tomorrow,” sang Jon. “For the journey of love is everlasting, flowing as a river ever-changing, never the same waters twice.”

I eyed Stenvar, smirking. He suppressed a little laugh.

He knew that I knew. This was a song he’d written. Even if I hadn’t recognized the lyrics from his songbook, clearly it was a metaphor for me, for him, for us, and for anyone else who had loved and lost and loved again.

His thumb brushed the back of my hand. My fingers felt naked all these years, ringless. I had given Yrsarald’s gold ring to Virald years ago, and Yrsarald’s sapphire engagement ring was kept safe, hidden away, a gift for whichever of my children should marry first. Though, secretly, it was Sara’s, if she wanted it.

Stenvar and I had never gotten engaged. It wasn’t really a thing in Skyrim aside from the betrothals of nobles. And rarely was a ring involved until marriage. But Stenvar and I weren’t getting rings today. Today, Marcurio, as the city’s Priest of Arkay, would wrap our wrists in strips of cloth ripped from my dress and Stenvar’s shirt, tie the cloths in a loose knot, and bind us together. The marriage was as official as any held in the Temple of Mara. All that mattered was there were witnesses, and that the city steward recorded the bond in a ledger. Stenvar made sure of this. He wanted his properties across Skyrim to be unquestionably mine, and our children’s.

My attention briefly shifted to Virald, next to the rest of the family, standing tall for a nine-year-old. His hair was a dark orange, never changing to a more light red-brown shade like his father’s. He looked handsome in his nicer clothing, but he appeared somewhat aloof. His gaze fell anywhere but the center of the courtyard.

But next to Virald, Sara and Vara were beaming. I smiled back.

Jon’s voice carried high above the musical tones, and he repeated that metaphoric line several times throughout the performance. I recognized Ash’s voice in the mix when others joined in for the chorus. The song had swelled but then faded back to just Jon. And as Stenvar and I leaned into one another, foreheads touching, I could hear him muttering the words he’d written as Jon sang them.

“And I welcome tomorrow,” Stenvar said, low and gravelly, “and all that it might bring.”

Even angled as I was, a bit shorter than Stenvar, I could see the corner of his mouth perk, and his smile lines deepen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song inspiration: "Sing for the Wind" by Roo Panes


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

I wasn’t much for dancing, manatee or not, and while Stenvar generally loved to dance, for now we sat on a bench on our back property where the party was held, our wrists tied. The children made the most out of the celebrations, galloping around, chasing one another, mimicking dances, stuffing their faces. Morgana and Bird danced with them nearly the entire time. I mainly chatted with others and Stenvar, enjoyed the lively music, and ate my fill of food.

It was convenient now – though it wasn’t always such – that all of my spawn were born so closely to one another. Flavia, Virald, and the girls were ten, nine, and eight years respectively, plus a few months one way or the other. Sighulf, Ralof and Eyleif’s boy, was about Flavia’s age, a bit younger. He looked every bit like his father with his dirty blonde hair, but had his mother’s curls.

The child I carried now had been a surprise. Not because I was too old – at forty-one that was not an issue yet – but because Stenvar and I had taken various measures to avoid another pregnancy.

So much for that.

The other children playing at the party, about a dozen or so, included Virald’s best friend Levandell, a rambunctious Redguard with slightly pointed ears.

Watching the children filled me with unexpected sadness. My first two had been breastfed largely by Morgana. Her own child with Ash, a daughter they had named Elaine, died several years ago. I suspected a problem with the heart, but no one could have been certain. The death of a child is tragic enough, but to make matters worse, Morgana, who had given life-saving milk to my and others’ children – and she still did – could no longer conceive after complications with Elaine’s birth.

But Morgana was nonetheless happy, always smiling and singing. Ash, too, was very happy. Long since married, the two of them were considering adopting one of the many orphans in town.

“Congrats, Red,” said Altanir as he plopped himself down on the bench next to me. He nodded to my husband. “Stenvar.”

“Thanks, Al,” I said.

The Redguard smiled and playfully slapped my knee. His hair, long and silky black with strands of silver, was tied back into a low ponytail. New wrinkles crossed his faint lavender facial tattoos. He dressed fancier these days, polished black and red leather armor, gold rings on his fingers. He did well for himself, selling his family farm and returning to the life of a traveling salesman. Or, at least that’s what he told people. In reality, he worked for and with people in Riften, very likely the Thieves Guild. Altanir didn’t talk much about his work.

“Where’s Neriwen?” I asked him. I hadn’t seen the Bosmer in ages.

“Markarth, I think,” he said. “They have their own little... business, going on over there. Plus, she met a guy.” He paused a moment, then turned to face me. “You might remember him. Captain Veleth, when we were in Raven Rock.”

“The Dunmer?”

He nodded. “I’m not sure why, but he was in Markarth, too. So, Neriwen stayed.”

“Well,” I said, “good for them.”

“How’s the museum business?”

“Good, actually. Slow, but good. We have more artifacts than visitors.” I laughed. “We keep getting donations from an anonymous benefactor. It isn’t Balgruuf. He financed us in the beginning but hasn’t donated many artifacts.”

“How are your finances now?”

I looked away and smoothed my hands down my dress. “We’re alright. Not swimming in coin, but alright.”

He laughed. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“It isn’t a lie,” I answered, smiling. “Truly, we’re doing fine. Stenvar still does odd jobs for the Companions, saving hapless villagers from rabid bears and whatnot. And we’ve been selling a lot of the items he’d stashed that weren’t actually artifacts, or were usable weapons and such. Morgana and Ash also bring in some money. And, with Marc, Bird, and Flavia out of the house, keeping everyone fed is easier.”

Altanir’s grey eyes twinkled as he grinned. “Alright, Red. Alright. But do let me know if you ever need help, hm?” He squeezed my knee and clapped Stenvar on the back before standing, and then made his way over to a redheaded woman I recognized as Aela, one of the Companions. The two were something of a couple, and have been for years.

Stenvar leaned into me and kissed my temple. “We could have used a bit of help, you know.”

I shook my head. “Nah. Not from Altanir. If he gives us some gold I won’t refuse it, but I’m still not convinced his earnings are... wholesome.”

My husband laughed and tugged at the cloth on his wrist, scratched the skin underneath.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We can take it off as soon as we’re in private.”

“I’m just sweatin’ a bit.” I brushed the beads of sweat from his forehead then poured him more water. He drank his fill and asked, “Havin’ fun?”

“I’m having fun watching everyone else have fun,” I answered in earnest. “Frankly, I’m exhausted. My feet hurt, I’m gassy, and, I’m sorry, but I need to use the latrine again soon.” Stenvar laughed again. “But, yes, I’m having fun. Are you having fun, Birthday Boy?”

“Boy?” he asked, still laughing.

I waved it off. “Just an expression.”

Chuckling, he said, “Yes, I’m havin’ fun. Best birthday ever, in fact. Not every day a guy gets to marry the love of his life.”

He was positively beaming. I nudged him with my elbow and laughed before kissing him.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, standing. “Latrine time?”

I sighed in advanced relief. “Yes, please.”

As we walked toward our home, I was compelled to lift my gaze to Snow Throat. The sunny Midyear day made for a clear view. I wondered what Nahfahlaar and Therodyn were doing today.

 

As the sun set, guests made their way home. Marcurio and Bird stayed late, allowing Flavia to play with her half-siblings a little longer. And Krikit, still hobbling around on his arthritic legs, ran after the children.

“He says it won’t be long, now,” Marcurio related as we watched Krikit run. My friend was speaking for Arkay. “He is happy enough to forget his pains,” he added, “but time is catching up with him.”

“Do you think we should help him along? We do that, in my world, when an animal is old and ailing.”

“No,” my friend said. “No need for that. He will have a peaceful end.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Stenvar.

As if he knew we were talking about him, Krikit bounded toward us, ending up half-leaping up to Stenvar who caught his paws, pulling me, attached at the wrist, forward a bit with the motion. We danced awkwardly for a few seconds before Stenvar lowered the dog to the ground. Krikit barked excitedly and sat down, gazing up as his human father, and barked again.

Marcurio looked around the yard. “We should get going soon,” he said. “I’ve that funeral tomorrow to prepare for.”

“Of course, Marc,” I said, hugging him with one arm. “Thank you for today. Everything was perfect.”

“It truly was,” said Stenvar.

We hugged our family goodbye and the three of them set off in our horse cart, drawn by Apple and driven by our steward, my housecarl, Josse.

. . . . . .

Stenvar and I collapsed onto our bed with a mutual satisfied moan. Wrists still bound, we stared up at the ceiling, entranced by the relative silence. The window was open, allowing the breeze to wash over us.

It was warm in the house, relatively speaking as Whiterun’s summers were not all that hot compared to Riften. But with all my extra weight and this long-sleeved dress, I felt in danger of overheating.

“We can lie down now,” Stenvar stated the obvious through a groan. “I don’t think a bed has ever felt so damn good.”

I laughed, and tugged at the wrist bindings. “Marc really knotted this thing tight.”

“I think that’s the point.” He started to tug at the cloth as well.

Working together, we finally loosened the fabric enough to wriggle out of the loops. Untying it was essential – cutting the bond would have bestowed bad luck upon our union. I walked the bindings over to our dresser and laid it on top before stripping out of my dress and undergarments. The breeze picked up and I lifted my arms, willing my body temperature to lower.

When I returned to the bed after washing, Stenvar was gazing at me, heavy-eyed and content. I snuggled up to him and returned his sleepy smile. “What are you smiling about?” I asked him.

“Just enjoyin’ the view, wifey.”

I snorted at the word. In Norren, there were no designated terms for wife or husband, but rather people used the words for man or woman, or the neutral term _felag_ that meant spouse or mate. But Stenvar, for the last five years, had taken to calling me _felagis_ , or little spouse. In kind, I had taken to calling him _stenis_ , or pebble. I could have come back at him with _felag_ or _felagis_ or _lotfelag_ – great husband; I felt pebble was more appropriate... and funny, considering his actual name meant stone man.

“ _Felagis_ ,” I repeated. “It isn’t the prettiest of words. Makes me think of the _English_ word for a certain dish served in my world made of sheep’s stomach, or something like that.”

 _Unasta_ , the term Yrsarald had called me that meant beloved, was so much nicer to my ears. But I didn’t want Stenvar to call me that. He did, once, and it made things very, very awkward, briefly. He never uttered the word again.

“Too late to change it now _, felagis_. It’s stuck in my head.” He grinned.

“Fine, _stenis_.” I smirked, and cradled his cheek in my palm. “The way you say it is nice, anyway.”

Stenvar grunted his appreciation and cradled me in his arms. We lay quiet for a while, and I thought he had drifted off to sleep when he said, “Did you think about him, today?”

I stiffened, and with Stenvar holding me I was sure he could tell. There was no lying about this. Perhaps he even saw it in my eyes at some point, or I had made some gesture. It was no secret between us, that even nine years after Yrsarald’s death I still pained at the thought of him, varying in intensity from slight pangs to falling into a bout of depression. Thankfully, the latter occurred less and less frequently. Thinking back on today, I could have easily lost myself in sorrow. I was impressed with myself that I had not.

Pulling away from Stenvar and resting on my pillow, I decided to answer with the truth. “It was almost impossible not to,” I said.

Of course I thought about Yrsarald, today and in the recent days passed. Planning a wedding was stressful enough, but it brought back many memories, good and bad. I had been spared planning for my marriage to Yrsarald who, before he died, had been arranging everything from the date right down to my dress while I was otherwise preoccupied. Marcurio could have helped make that same dress again – I told him under no circumstances was he to do so. I had seen that dress, or rather the sketches for it. I was certain I would not have been able to emotionally handle seeing it again. And we didn’t have the funds for such a thing, anyway.

I eyed Stenvar as he eyed me. “Sara asked me, before I left the temple this morning, if I loved you as much as I loved Yrsa.”

Stenvar’s expression relaxed and then soured, but only briefly. “Why would she ask that?”

“Virald, apparently, was boasting to Sara that I loved his father more than hers. I have no idea why or how that got into his head, or why he would even say such things. You’ve been his father. He’s known no other. I don’t—” I shook my head “—I just don’t understand.” The possibility that Virald thought Stenvar didn’t consider him to be his son or that Virald didn’t consider Stenvar to be his father wounded me deeply, and I couldn’t stop the tears from welling in my eyes.

Stenvar must have seen the tears glistening in the candlelight, as he kissed my forehead and pulled me close again.

“I had to explain to her,” I continued, “that I love both of you equally. Yrsa is gone but I love him no less. And me loving him doesn’t make me love you any less. That it is possible to love more than one person, in that way. I think she understood. I never know if I’m actually making sense to our children or not.”

My husband chuckled softly and stroked my hair. “Sara’s a bright one. She understood, I’m sure of it.”

“And Viri, he looked like he didn’t even want to be there, at the wedding. He was fine after, playing with Levandell and others, but during the ceremony he looked like he couldn’t care less.” I was legitimately crying, now.

“He’s at that age, you know?” Stenvar smoothed a hand up and down my bare back. “He’s always been stubborn. It’s just gonna get worse.” He chuckled again.

“It’s not funny, Stenvar!” I kept my volume low, but was nonetheless yelling. “I worry about his behavior. Something changed after I told him more about Yrsarald. Confirming the rumors he’d heard; what Yrsa was, what Virald isn’t.”

Stenvar held a ponderous, absent look in his eyes. “Maybe he’s more werebear than you thought,” he said. “He’s nine years old. Isn’t ten years the age when—”

“He isn’t going to shift. He won’t—I don’t think.”

“He needs to know that it _could_ happen, Deb. Before anything does happen that might cause him or others harm.” He chuckled yet again, jostling my body a bit. “I already gave him the sex talk. You can do the hard bit.”

“ _Hard_ bit? Sex talks are the hard bit.”

Stenvar was full-on laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, laughing as well.

“You,” he said. “You’re so shy. It’s adorable.”

“Mhmm.” I booped his nose. “I wasn’t so shy that time you took me to the Spring Ritual.”

“No, but you _were_ drunk on that spiced wine.”

I laughed. “True.”

Stenvar wiped my cheeks dry. “There’s no need to cry, sweetheart. Virald knows I love ‘im. And, legally, I am his father. But I can’t make him feel one way or another about me or anything else.”

I settled back onto my pillow with a sigh. The baby kicked, and my hands instinctively settled onto my belly, offering the fetus a target.

Smiling, I said, “This one is excited to meet you, I think.”

Stenvar’s hand slid under mine just in time for another kick, and other, softer movements.

“She’s gonna be a fighter,” he said.

“She? No. Morgana swears it’s a boy. And don’t even joke that it’s twins again or I swear to the gods...”

Stenvar laughed. “No, no thank you. I’m not sure I could survive another round of twins.” His thumb caressed my belly, and his lips pressed against my shoulder. “Boy or girl, or anything in between,” he said softly, “as long as it’s healthy.”

“Mm. By the way it’s making me eat? Very healthy.”

Stenvar pulled my face toward him, gazing, then leaned in close to whisper, “As long as it’s our last.”

I laughed as he kissed me, and play-smacked him on the back. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest,” he replied, grinning. “Never would’ve thought us so fertile.”

“The gods must have fixed you like they did me.”

“Or we’re just a good fit.”

“You certainly do fit well,” I joked, smirking.

He returned with a wicked grin as he crawled on top of me. “Might as well take advantage of you bein' with child, hmm? Can’t get pregnant when you’re pregnant.”

He began to lean in, but I interrupted with, “Actually, it’s happened. Not often of course, but a woman can get pregnant when with child.”

“Horse shit,” he spat.

“It’s true. But I sincerely doubt it will happen with me.” I thought on my statement, then added, “I mean, probably not. The chances are very low.”

Stenvar smiled before asking, “Can I please kiss my wife now?”

I laughed and nodded. “Yes. Sorry. Yes.”

My husband pressed his lips to mine, his trimmed beard poking. He pulled away after what was a long, loving kiss.

“Stenvar?”

“Hmm?”

I smiled, and bit my lip before whispering, “I have to pee.”

Stenvar bowed his head in defeat, then playfully smacked my rear as I trotted to the chamber pot.


	5. Chapter 5

Waddling was about the only way I could get around these days. The single child within me was a hefty one, hungrier and hungrier as eight months crept by. I had been summoned to the palace a few weeks ago, but I couldn’t bear the thought walking all the way there from the city gates let alone up the several dozen steps to the palace doors. And carting people around on litters wasn’t something they did here. Probably.

I had become a hermit of late, never leaving my property. I cleaned the house and museum, fed the chickens and cows and horse, catalogued artifacts, welcomed the handful of visitors we received, and napped, napped, napped.

Sometimes I would find the time and inspiration to write a bit. Several months ago, I began writing what Yrsarald had encouraged me to – my story. I had several dozen pages down, so far. Mainly I wrote about my earlier life, the years I lived on Earth. If I never finished the memoir, at least someone who knew me in Skyrim could write that half. But I did have a list of topics I wanted to write about. All the important things, good and bad, that I experienced. The list went in timewise order, and ended with a chapter titled _The Museum_. There was a blank space next to the following number.

As I sat at my desk, facing the window in what was now the museum’s office, I filled in the blank space, smiling as I did so.

 _The Handfasting_. I wrote a sequential number after it, and again left the line blank. I did not yet have a name for this child.

I was writing about my university career when a knock came at the museum’s front door. The knock repeated three times before I waddled my way to answer it. I slid the wooden slab that covered the peephole, peered through, and huffed. Then I groaned.

Standing at the door, his Dunmer housecarl Irileth and several more guards in tow, was High King Balgruuf, wearing what one might call his street clothes (though they were still fancy), and his son by Queen Elisif, little Balki. Or, not so little, anymore. He was eight years old, and must have gone through a growth spurt recently. The fair little cherub I knew was not much of a cherub any longer, but rather a young man.

Balgruuf, on the other hand, was looking haggard at sixty years, much more so than Stenvar at sixty-four. The jarl-turned-king boasted a silver mane in place of his blonde hair. The wrinkles on his face deepened and spread between each time I saw him. And he seemed shorter.

A heavy crown, indeed.

Balki ran up to me, grinning and bright-eyed. “Dragonborn!” he called as he grasped my hand. “You’re huge!”

Balgruuf and I laughed at that. “Balki,” the king chided, “manners.”

“Sorry, papa.” The boy looked up at me with the palest of blue eyes. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I said, patting the child’s cheek. “And true. Go on in, I know what you’re here to see.”

Balki ran inside and veered left, always left to see the dragon skull that was moved here from the palace. Queen Elisif’s orders. It had been originally installed on the wall behind the palace throne, of which there were now two. She feared the skull would fall on her, one day.

Irileth silently shadowed Balgruuf, and the remaining guards shielded the museum door from the outside.

“You look well,” Balgruuf lied. “Tired, but well.”

I scoffed as we clasped forearms. “Thank you. I feel like a horker in a dress, but thank you. How have you been?”

“One would think a time of peace and general prosperity would make governing easier,” was his only answer.

“I only have to worry about this place and several children. I can imagine managing an entire country is a bit more complex.”

Balgruuf side-eyed me as we strolled, following Balki’s path. “You’ve had your hardships,” he said.

I offered him a half smile. “And how is the queen?”

“Delightfully busy,” he said. “Elisif has been working closely with the stewards. She has done well, managing finances and trade.”

“The markets have indeed been overflowing. I mean, last I saw. The trade agreement with Hammerfell is holding?”

“It is. Did you receive their donation?”

“I did. I haven’t had the time to figure out how to display the pieces, though.”

He nodded. “Speaking of finances,” he said, “how have yours been? I see the construction I funded went well.”

“Gods, yes. Thank you. A hundred times, thank you. We needed that addition for the library. The room the books were in is now set up for artifacts. We would have been buried under our collection without the addition.”

“And your finances?” he asked again.

I eyed him steadily. “We’re fine. Honest, we are. It is enough you pay Josse’s wages.”

Balki was still gawking at the dragon skull, its maw twice his size and teeth as long as his face. The prince was allowed to touch his family heirloom, and he did, running his fingers along the serrated tooth edges and poking the fossil in its nasal aperture.

“Where are your children?” Balgruuf asked.

“Oh,” I sighed, “somewhere. Sometimes I don’t see them until dinner. Vara is with Stenvar, I know.”

“They’re well?”

As I nodded, noise sounded from the foyer, followed by two sets of footfalls.

“Deb?” I heard Bird call.

“In here,” I answered.

When Bird entered, Flavia following, he immediately took a knee, bowing his head. Flavia bowed as well, her flowy pale blue dress fluttering as she did so. When she stood, she was caught off guard by Irileth, and the two shared a lengthy gaze.

“My king,” Bird said, his voice soft. He stood. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, no,” Balgruuf assured him. “Balki requested a visit.” The king turned to me, his glare carrying a different message.

“Right, good,” said Bird. “Deb, we brought those clothes for the girls. They’re on the counter. If they don’t fit, I’ll just take them to the orphanage.”

“Thanks, Bird. I have a feeling they won’t fit Sara and they probably won’t be to Vara’s taste... but we’ll see.”

Flavia joined Balki in appreciating the massive skull. The girl was shy, had made few friends growing up, but when she met Balki several years ago they bonded immediately, despite the two-year age difference.

“Flavia,” Bird called, “let’s go.”

The girl spun toward her father, her blue eyes wide and dark. “Already?”

“I’ve got errands.”

Flavia pouted, and her shoulders sank. She turned back to the skull, and then to Balki.

“She can stay, Bird,” I said. Turning to Balgruuf, I added, “And perhaps leave with you, later? The Hall is on the way to the palace, after all.”

The king nodded. “Very well.”

Bird clapped his hands together and shrugged. “Fine by me. Thank you, King Balgruuf.” He made a small bow again, received a nod from the king, and waved goodbye. To Flavia he grinned and said, “Behave.”

When Balgruuf next looked at me, he was smirking.

In the next room adjoining the one with the skull, Balgruuf pretended to study the map of Skyrim on the wall that he himself donated from his archives. It was an outdated map, but a pretty one, and well preserved.

“You say you are fine for money, yet your children wear hand-me-downs.” Balgruuf’s smile was sardonic at best.

I watched the children play around the dragon skull, feigning fear and casting invisible spells at it.

“We have full bellies and comfortable beds,” I said. “If we are ever truly in need again, I will tell you.”

The king grasped my shoulder before patting my upper back. He turned again to the map, his gaze settling on Solitude in the northwest. His eldest daughter was its jarl. His eldest son was the jarl of Windhelm, where Isran was still its steward. Whiterun was now Skyrim’s capital.

No one – or not enough people to notice – protested these political moves. The consensus seemed to be that Balgruuf knew what he was doing, and there were few surviving jarls’ families as it was and no one to tell anyone what to do about it. Cities had to play a game of thrones, their surviving citizens voting someone to the position. My counsel had been sought to appoint Windhelm’s jarl.

I thought perhaps Balgruuf sought it once more.

“Why did you summon me to the palace?” I asked.

“Why did you not come?”

I laughed. “Have you not seen me?”

Balgruuf smiled. “I wanted to talk to you about _that_ ,” he said, nodding to his side.

The children were fighting off the other smaller skeletons that lined the walls of that room. The mounted, articulated frost troll had apparently clawed Balki’s gut, and Flavia fell to his side and cast a make-believe healing spell to save his life.

“What, the skull?” I asked. “You can have it back. But I thought Elisif called it a hazard and an eyesore.”

Balgruuf’s laugh was guttural, full, and vibrated against my eardrums. “You can keep the skull.” He lowered his voice. “I meant the children.”

“What about them?”

“Balki has voiced his interest.”

I cocked a brow and leered at the man. “He’s eight.”

“Never too early to start considering a match.”

“A match? Balgruuf, I’m not her mother. I mean, I am, but I’m not her parent. This isn’t a conversation you can have with me.”

“Oh, I am aware. But I wanted to know, from you, has she shown any signs of being what you are? Of having the Voice, or being a mage?”

“Why? Would that be a bad thing?”

He smirked. “No, not at all. But Elisif and I would like to know.”

I hugged my chest tightly and avoided looking at Balgruuf. “None of my children have shown any sign of being anything other than children. Of course, Marc is a bit disappointed. He would have liked to have a mage child. Anyway, I don’t think it’s in the blood. At least not in my case. The gods made me the way I am for a reason. It doesn’t mean my children will be anything like me.”

“But you can’t know for certain.”

A loud, vibrating thud sounded from deep in the museum halls, making me jump and grasp at my collar.

Irileth held up her hand for us to remain where we were. She unsheathed her sword, and crept down the hall in immaculate silence. A few moments later she returned, shrugged and said, “There is nothing, no one. Perhaps a bird flew into a window.”

My dragon sense also picked up nothing but us three and the children. And the guards and chickens, just outside. But on the off-chance a ghost or stealthed individual was amongst us and my senses failed me, I cast both a life- and death-detection spell, one in each hand. Thankfully, nothing glowed within the house but the five I knew to be here.

“Thank you for checking, Irileth,” I said.

“I suppose we should be going,” said Balgruuf, “just in case it was not nothing.”

“Agreed,” replied his housecarl.

As we walked to the front door, collecting the children along the way, I pulled Balgruuf aside and asked, quietly, “Are you going to speak with Bird and Marc about... the... goat?”

_Nice._

Balgruuf smiled, and answered, “We do have to escort the goat home, do we not?”

“What goat?” asked Balki. “Are we having roast goat for dinner tonight, papa?”

“We will see, son. We will see. Did you have fun?”

“I killed Numinex and then a frost troll killed me but Flavia saved me, and I saved her from that skeever! And then we hunted bandits together, for the bounty.”

Balgruuf looked around the foyer. “Bandits? I don’t see any bandits.”

“Exactly,” replied Flavia, her voice lofty and proud, hands placed triumphantly on her narrow hips.

Balgruuf chuckled and side-hugged his boy as they walked out of the museum toward the gilt royal carriage. The children hugged me goodbye, and Balgruuf and Irileth wished me farewell. The king helped Balki up inside the carriage, and Balki offered his hand to Flavia.

While I watched their carriage make for the city, I rounded the property to inspect the windows on the north side of the house. So far, nothing I could see had been broken or smudged, and there were no errant chickens or dead birds. As I came to the window that lit the Ancient Nord Artifact Room (nicknamed the Draugr’s House), I spotted Virald and his friend Levandell crouched in the field before the paddock fence. Apple, our horse, dapple cream with a white mane and tail, grazed peacefully. I wondered if he missed his dam.

I approached the two boys, ready to scold them for throwing things near the house. Perhaps they had been playing catch, or dodge, or whatever it was they got up to nowadays.

“Viri,” I called, and my son peered back at me quickly before turning back around to look at the ground.

Levandell grinned up at me, his ears moving slightly as he did so. “Hello, ma’am.”

“Hi, Levan,” I said. “What are you two up to?”

At that moment, a bluebird launched itself into the air, wings frantic and a soft but rapid murmuring sounding from it. The startled bird circled the area at first, then course-corrected and flew in a deliberate, straighter path, disappearing into the east.

“Oh, shit!” Levandell cried.

I turned to the boys, confused, and they looked up at me, shock evident on their faces. Levandell jabbed Virald’s shoulder, gaining his attention.

“You did it!” he said. “You—”

“Shh!” Virald hissed.

“What?” I asked. “What did you do, Virald?”

Levandell spoke. “He res—”

“Shut up!” Virald violently shoved his friend, who fell back onto his rear.

“Virald!” Before I could get a hold of my son, he bolted away, rounding the south side of the house, disappearing. The chickens clucked in terror.

Exhausted by this rapid turn of events, I sat myself down on the green with a groan. Hand on my rotund stomach, I took in several deep breaths and regarded the young boy before me. He was still in shock, his big yellow eyes drowning in unshed tears.

“Are you alright, Levan?”

The boy of seven years nodded and looked away. He gently rubbed his assaulted chest.

“Do you want me to heal it?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Do you want some taffy?” I offered.

The boy perked, and flashed me a sweet smile.

 

Inside our kitchen, Levandell chewed on his treat as I made myself some tea. “Would you like me to walk you home?” I asked him.

“I can walk it,” he said. “Virald says you don’t wanna walk anymore.”

“Ha, well, lately, no. But I’ll be going on walks again after this monster is born.”

The boy looked at me wide-eyed before realizing I was being sarcastic about the monster part. He laughed and continued gnawing on his red taffy, a chewy, stringed concoction made of wheat flour, salt, water, butter, and snowberries.

“Levan,” I began, “what was Virald doing with that bluebird?”

The boy finished chewing, swallowed, and answered, “He gave it Kynareth’s Breath.”

Kynareth’s Breath. Kyne’s Breath? I thought about what the boy could have meant – a potion, a drug, an herb, something else altogether – but I could think of nothing.

“What do you mean?” I asked him. “What did he do, exactly? Was there something wrong with the bird?”

Levandell’s dark pink lips circled around the red candy as slurped in the final bit. He nodded as he chewed, and said, “The bird was dead.”

. . . . . .

The bathwater was cold by the time Stenvar came home. We exchanged smiles, and he undressed and joined me in the wooden tub. I leaned back against him, relishing in the warm pillow that had grown slightly softer as the years progressed.

“Mmph,” he grunted, “warm it up a bit, hon.”

The simple fire spell was not enough to tax my body or my baby, and I heated the water until it was a pleasant temperature. I noticed just now pruned my fingertips were, but I didn’t feel like getting out just yet.

Stenvar’s hands came to my shoulders and immediately began to massage them.

“You’re tight on the right side,” he said as his fingers dug into the muscle. “Everything alright?”

I sighed into the wonderful sensation of strong hands kneading away my knots. “So much. So much happened today. Or it feels like a lot. I’m... processing.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

I told Stenvar about Balgruuf and the children, about the possible betrothal, and about Virald. Virald’s behavior with Levandell, what Virald did to that bird, and the anger he had expressed at his actions being exposed to me.

“Why would he want to hide something like that? From me, of all people. I’m a mage, for fuck’s sake.”

“You haven’t used your magic very much these years. Maybe he thinks it isn’t normal, whatever is going on with him.”

“He _resurrected a bird_ , Stenvar. That is beyond any magic I know. And it wasn’t a conjuration spell. That wasn’t a zombie bird. That was a fully alive bird.”

“Maybe it was never truly dead. Just stunned. That happens, when they fly into something.”

“True. I just....” I snarled and gripped the tub walls. “Why is he so _angry_ all the time? He was an angry baby. An angry toddler. I worry what kind of man he will be.”

“Something is clearly wrong, Deb. Talk to him. About everything. Tell him he can tell you anything, ask you anything. Make him do so, if it comes to that.”

“I won’t force him, Stenvar. That won’t be good for anyone.”

“Anyway, do it soon.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, smirking.

He chuckled lightly. My shoulder was less tight, and he must have sensed this as his hands slowly made their way down to my breasts, one hand drifting lower, beneath the water. His submerged hand eventually teased my legs apart.

“You know,” I said, “that is one way to provoke labor.”

“What is?”

“What you’re doing. What your doing can do.”

“What? You’re not making sense.”

“Mmm.”

Stenvar’s fingers continued to dance against my breasts and between my legs. “Ah, now I remember,” he said. “You mentioned this when you were big with the girls.”

“Mm. Yes. Possible. Not probable. Not now. But, if labor is near, yes, can.”

He chuckled, his lips suckling where my neck met my shoulder. “Good to know,” he purred.

. . . . . .

The following morning, Virald was late to breakfast, plodding noisily down the stairs and into the back portion of the house we added on to be the kitchen and dining area. Eyes puffy and eyelids heavy, he could barely walk in a straight line from stove to table. I worried he would spill his porridge. Krikit barked his greeting to the child, and Virald gave the old dog the pets he requested.

“Good morning, love,” I said as cheerily as possible.

Virald grumbled in response. I wanted to reprimand him, tell him that it wasn’t polite to act in such a way, but I baulked at such corrective parenting. That was Stenvar’s thing. Clearly Virald was upset about something, or simply tired, and he had a right to be grumpy, although he was already prone to grumpiness.

“Did you not sleep well, last night?” I asked him as I sat down with a cup of tea that was supposed to help reduce ankle swelling. It didn’t work, but it tasted good.

Virald gave a slight shake to his head and kept his gaze low, to his porridge.

“Is anything the matter?” I asked.

I expected silence in response, and got exactly that. Virald was never one to share his problems, even something as small as a scraped knee.

“It’s going to be hot, today,” I said, stating the obvious. It was the twenty-fifth of Last Seed, late August in Earth terms. Even Whiterun Hold, where the weather was fair and mostly dry this time of year, had its share of warm fronts.

“Can I have seconds?” Virald asked, ignoring me, otherwise.

His question made me happy, though. He had always been a skinny child, all that running around. He needed all the food he could get, especially if he had cast some sort of spell yesterday, one potentially powerful enough to restore life into a dead body.

“Of course, sweetie.”

Virald finished his bowl, poured himself his seconds, and ate greedily.

“It’s alright, you know,” I told him. “It’s alright that you can cast spells.”

My son looked up at me, his typically dark blue eyes pale against the sunlight shining in through the window, red hair glowing. He made no expression, but paused his chewing, briefly, then returned his attention to his food.

“I am curious, though,” I continued. “I hope you don’t think I’m angry, if you did cast a spell. I’m a mage. You know that. Uncle Marc and Ash are both mages. And Marcurio actually graduated from the--”

“It wasn’t a spell,” he blurted.

I tried to contain my excitement that the child had actually responded with anything at all. “Oh?” I asked, thighs tensed against the bench. “Was the bird ever truly dead, or just stunned?”

“It was dead. I could hear it calling. She was sad.”

 _Oh_. “You... heard the bird? When it was dead?”

Virald looked up mid-chew and nodded. “She had babies to return to.”

I tried to convince myself that Virald had a vivid imagination and had made up a story for himself and for Levandell while they were playing, and that Virald wanted to pretend to be a mage. But the look on Levandell’s face when that bird came to life had been too pure to not be organic, unless that child was a gifted actor.

“She called to you, did she?” was what I said. “What did the bird say?”

“Not say, mom. Birds can’t talk.”

I managed a smile. “I know, Viri. I know.”

“My name isn’t Viri!” he shouted.

His shift in demeanor startled me. I relaxed into a slow nod. “Alright, Virald. I’m sorry. I’ll make sure everyone knows how you prefer to be called.” I sipped my tea. _Totally casual. Calm. Everything is fine._ “If the bird didn’t talk, what do you mean by calling? Like birdsong?”

“No. More like, I knew where her body was and I knew what she wanted, so I gave it to her.”

A memory flashed as Virald spoke, and my gaze lowered to our dog, lying at Virald’s feet. _He tells me his name is Krikit_ , Frea had said about the silvery creature with a curled poofy tail. _I hear the sun and the wind and the water and the trees and the ash and the beast_.

“V-Virald?” I started. He looked up at me, waiting. “Do... do you hear what Krikit thinks? Do you... can you talk to him?”

The boy laughed. That smile, so beautiful, was so rare. My heart jumped with glee at the sight of it.

“No, mom. I can’t talk to animals. _Puh_.”

I feigned laughter and sipped my tea. “No, of course not. Silly me. But, the bird.”

Sniggering, Virald said, “The bird was dead,” as if that was answer enough.

I swallowed the last of my tea, set the cup down, and stared at my son.

“Virald?” I called, softly. He let his spoon fall into his bowl, plopped his hands down onto the table, and glared at me. I continued quickly, lest he leave in annoyance of me. “Virald, can you speak to – or see – ghosts?”

My son’s posture sank, losing all its defenses in an instant. At that same moment, the glint of gold flashed from the kitchen entrance: sunlight reflecting off of one of Marcurio’s earrings.

 

“You _knew_?” I asked Marcurio.

“I suspected, Deb,” he corrected, his honey-brown eyes widening. “It was only this morning that Arkay confirmed my suspicions.”

“You never said anything. Marc! This—this isn’t something you keep from a parent! Even a suspicion.”

He smoothed his dark hair back with his palm and gripped it for a second. “I know. I’m sorry. I won’t keep such things from you again.”

I leaned into my hands, elbows propped up on the table. Virald had left the kitchen with Krikit a few moments after Marcurio arrived. I had never before been so thankful for the boy’s never-ending quest to seek something to do outside of our home.

“I don’t need this,” I muttered. “I don’t need this right now. I need four weeks. Four more weeks and then I can worry all I want.”

“What does worrying have to do with the baby?”

“Stress can make them come early. Though they can come early for any reason, like Flavia. I wasn’t terribly stressed, then. But two weeks isn’t so bad. Four weeks, that is too early for my comfort.”

Marcurio’s right hand flashed pale blue and I lurched back and held out my hand, palm out. The light dissipated.

“Don’t—don’t Calm me, Marc. I don’t know what it does to the baby.”

“Virald turned out fi—” He stopped himself. He lowered his hand, his expression sheepish. “Perhaps I did cast Calm a bit much on you, back then.”

“If it did anything at all to Virald, it made him hot-blooded.” I peered at Marcurio’s small gold-loop earrings as I pondered my predicament. A few moments of silence later, I said, “I think it’s my fault.”

Marcurio leaned in, arms folded on the table. “What is? Virald?”

I nodded. “I hadn’t thought about it recently. But I did, back when he was born and screaming all the time.” I tapped my thumb against my lips, holding, pressing in, letting the lips pillow out again. “When I was pregnant with him, before I knew – because _someone_ told me nothing...” I avoided gazing at Marcurio, as he was only a third of the party at fault. “Do you remember when Stenvar brought those chests to Riften? The ones from Windhelm.”

“Sure.”

“And that one of them had Yrsarald’s things in it?”

“I definitely remember the one with Yrsarald’s things in it.” The man’s tone was nothing short of chastening.

I glared at him before I continued. “So, inside that chest was a vial, containing an old potion.” I avoided looking at Marcurio again. I didn’t need to see his disapproval. “The potion was given to Yrsa by Wuunferth, after Ulfric was killed. Yrsa wanted to see, try to see Ulfric’s ghost. Nothing happened, and I guess he never tried again because there was still potion left inside the vial.”

“Oh, Deb.”

“Wouldn’t you have, if Bird had died?” I asked him, finally locking onto his gaze. “I was desperate. Nothing happened, of course. I don’t think Yrsa is or was ever a ghost. He’s gone. But I drank it all right then, not knowing I was pregnant. I thought about it after Viri was born but I had no way of knowing...” I grumbled and again lowered my forehead into my palms. “I figure, it’s either that, or his werebear blood.”

“My money’s on blood, Deb. I mean, I’m no alchemist, but I would wager innumerable women have taken all sorts of potions while with child. If one was dangerous in some way, or... _changed_ a person in some way, we’d know about them. I’m sure alchemists do.”

I sighed, long and deep, and closed my eyes. I saw Frea frowning into dawn’s smoldering campfire. _I can only hear those who call to me,_ she had said, _and this does not often happen._ My stomach tightened, and looked up at my concerned friend.

“He might be a shaman,” I whispered.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Like Sharash?”

I shook my head. “No. Sharash can only heal using energy from the land. I mean, like Frea.”

“Frea. Solstheim Frea?”

I nodded. “She could hear the voices of the dead, ones who called to her. She said prayers for them, set their spirits free. A lot like what you do, I suppose. Funeral rites.”

“You think Frea was a priest of Arkay, or the like?”

“No, Marc. She was a shaman. Is. Their magic works differently, and she probably doesn’t even know who Arkay is... unless of course Arkay is also this All-Maker she mentioned.” I cocked a brow. “Is he?” I asked, as if Marcurio was a medium for the deity. Actually, he was.

“All-Maker?” he asked, and thought a moment, fingering his tiny bit of beard under his lip. “No, I don’t know what the All-Maker is. Do you truly believe Frea talked to the dead?”

“Why not? You do.”

“Yes, but I’m a priest of Arkay.”

“And?”

“And... it comes with the job.”

“So a shaman of the Skaal can’t also talk to the dead?”

“I didn’t say that. I just meant, do you have proof she talked to the dead?”

“No, but she did talk to Krikit.”

“Hmph. Right, you did tell me that.” Marcurio reached across the table to grasp my hand. “We’ll figure this out, Deb. Just... Virald needs to know, he can’t walk around bringing critters back to life. Arkay will know about it and he won’t be happy. And when he isn’t happy, I get migraines, and zombies in my basement.”

I squeezed his fingers. “What?”

He chuckled. “Sorry, no, not actually, not now, but I know what happens when the balance between life and death is shifted. You remember what happened when the Eye of Magnus was being abused and the dead were rising. If Virald keeps ushering spirits back into their bodies, we’re going to have a problem.” The man’s free hand capped our clasped hands. He smiled warmly before standing. “I have to go. Another funeral.”

I smiled, and said, “I do not envy you one bit, my friend.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: “Fly (acoustic)” by Meadowlark

He had dark eyes, and dark hair. A birthmark on his back, lower right, a small half-moon. And on his right forearm, a few millimeters apart, three small moles in a row. He was quiet, fat, and sleepy. And I had no idea what to name him.

“He has your chin,” I said to Stenvar.

“Your nose,” he claimed.

“Hmm. Your eyes.”

“What are you gonna name him?” asked Sara.

“He won’t be named for a week, yet,” I said.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because some babies don’t make it that long,” Stenvar replied frankly. Sugar-coating wasn’t his thing.

“Why?” Sara asked again.

“Some children are just...” I couldn’t think of how to finish the sentence.

“Weak, or sick,” Stenvar chimed in. “Or Shor calls them home.”

The children fell silent for a moment until Flavia asked, “Can I hold him?”

“Sure,” I answered, and Stenvar helped transfer the little burrito.

As my extended family fawned over the newborn, Marcurio approached, proffering a cup of water. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said in all earnest. “The child practically fell out of me. Easy, this time.”

“Did the midwife examine you?”

“Yes, yes, Marc. I’m fine.”

The Imperial looked around the room and said, “Virald isn’t here.”

With a sigh, I said, “No. He’s not. He left after breakfast and I haven’t seen him since.”

“He’s still doing that?”

“He’s still doing that,” Stenvar confirmed.

“Have any migraines, lately?” I asked Marcurio.

He smiled. “No. I think my talk with him worked.”

“What talk?” asked Vara. “How to not be so weird?”

“Vara!” Stenvar chided. “Different is not weird.”

The girl muttered an apology and slouched behind Bird. But the tall man hooked her in with his arm and lightly ruffled her grey hair with his knuckles, garnering laughter from the girl.

“The twenty-second of Heart Fire.” Ash readily changed the subject, reading aloud from the book he had been obsessing over. Zodiac analysis and such was a hobby of his. “Born under the sign of The Lady, a charge of The Warrior, this child will be kind and... tolerant, making many friends throughout their life. They will be physically r-resilient, resistant to some magic, and will rarely... fall ill, but any spells cast by them will be weak. Hmm... Expect those born under this sign to be s-steadfast on the battlefield, a tireless warrior.”

Ash closed the book and smiled at his recitation. After eight years his grasp of Norren was nearly flawless. He read at about the same level as Flavia, though with the comprehension level of an adult.

“I’m the warrior,” Vara muttered.

“You are, sweetie,” said Stenvar. “You are. It’s just a Star Sign. You were born under the sign of The Thief, remember? Evening Star. You and your sister’s lives will be full of good luck. It has nothing to do with being a thief.”

“Please don’t become thieves,” I said the girls, smirking. Under my good humor however was that same pang of dread. Yrsarald, too, had been born under the sign of The Thief, and like Ash’s book said it would, his luck had run out.

“Don’t forget that The Serpent is crossing the sky, now,” said Bird.

Ash’s expression gloomed and his dark eyes went wide. “It is?”

“The Serpent?” I asked. “What does that mean?”

Ash looked to me, back to Bird, and to me again. He opened his mouth to speak, but it took another few seconds for him to say something. “The Serpent,” he said, “moves across the sky at a different pace than the other constellations, has its own path. It can overlap with any of the constellations, at one time or another. It makes any other prediction somewhat... different. It all depends on which way the serpent is pointing in the sky tonight. I’ll take a look later, and let you know tomorrow what I learn.”

“We could ask Farengar,” said Marcurio. “He knows his stars.”

“I don’t think—” I was about to say that I didn’t think any of that stuff mattered, but Ash, my adult adopted son, was standing right there. I smiled at the younger man and said, “I don’t think we need to bother the old mage. Ash knows his stuff.”

I had this whole Mom thing _down_.

 

The next day, Ash related to me that the sky had been cloudy and The Snake unobservable. According to his book, this meant that my son’s temperament, as well as his future, was wholly unpredictable.

. . . . . .

In the pre-morning of the day my infant son was to be named, I sat in a chair in Virald’s bedroom; the girls slept in a separate one. The young boy was sprawled out over his bed, chuffing in a way similar to his father. As the infant in my arms nursed, I watched Virald sleep, waiting for him to waken. I would be here, waiting, ready to stop him from leaving. We were going to have this talk today, this morning, any moment now. No more delays. No more running away from home for an entire day and not showing up until dinner.

I gazed down at my newborn’s right arm, lightly pressing my fingertips to the three little moles in a row. There were other similar marks on his body, but these three so closely resembled part of a particular constellation from my world that, eventually, what to name my son became crystal clear.

At the crack of dawn, our rooster crowed, and Virald mumbled himself awake.

The unexpected sight of me made the boy jump. I smiled.

“Good morning, love.”

“What’re you doing?” he mumbled.

“We need to talk.”

“Again?” He made to get up.

“About your father.”

That stopped him. Virald sat right back down on his bed. “What about him?”

“Well, a couple of things, actually. You know that he was a werebear, that he could shift into a beast form.”

“Am I a werebear?”

I smiled, and said, “No, Virald. I don’t think you’re a werebear. But there’s something I didn’t tell you, before. The age of ten years is when a werebear can first shift. And, just in case something might happen, I wanted you to know. It could happen. I just don’t think it will. Altanir’s father was a werewolf and Altanir is not. I think, like Altanir, you’re mostly human.”

“Mostly?”

I nodded. “A part of you is probably different, but we don’t know what part, yet.”

Virald looked down at his palms. “My power,” he asked, quiet, then looked to me again. “The whispers?”

 _Whispers_. I frowned. Of all things, I would have wanted my children to be normal mortals. But Virald was showing signs of being a shaman or perhaps something similar to a priest of Arkay. My son could hear the unhappy undead, and apparently has since the day he was born. He could have grown up thinking himself crazy, or extra special and blessed by the Divines. Instead he was simply angry. I didn’t blame him.

“Honestly, love,” I said, “I have no idea if your powers have anything to do with what your father was. The only thing he could do that was superhuman was smell things, emotions, and of course shift into beast form. I wish he were here now to talk to you. He would have loved you so, so much. But he would not have wanted you to be like him, a werebear.”

“Wh-why not?”

“He didn’t like what he was. He wanted to be human, only human. I think it has something to do with his sister. She didn’t like what she was, and when your father was young, a bit older than you are now, she took him from their home on Solstheim and fled to Skyrim.”

“Solstheim?”

“It’s a big island northeast of Skyrim. In the south, it’s burning. In the north, it’s frozen. Your father’s people were from there, in the north. He always ran warm, your father. And I think you do, too.”

“I like the cold,” he said.

I smiled. “You do.”

“I never met a werebear,” he said. “Or a werewolf. Just Altanir.”

I held my tongue, forcing myself not to say, _Oh, but you did meet a werewolf! You remember Selina and Aela, don’t you?_ That was their business to disclose, or not. Instead, I said, “I actually met people who knew your father and his sister. Other werebears, on Solsthiem.”

“You went to Solstheim?”

“I did. I had to go there, to find some people called the Telvanni. They helped save us from the vampires. You remember the story?”

He nodded.

“In my travels I met a group of people called the Skaal, led by a shaman called Frea. A great woman. While we traveled together we met some werebear folk. I think I even told them about you, when they asked about your father. I told them that Yrsarald was no longer living, but that he had a son, you.”

“They know about me,” he said. “Can we go see them?”

I smiled, and said, “The journey is much too long for a child, love. And I’ve got a newborn to care for now.” I nodded to the chubby bundle in my arms, chugging away at milk. “But when you’re older, I would be happy to visit Solstheim with you. You should indeed learn about where your father came from. But, Virald, about the shifting. When Yrsarald was very angry – and I mean, so upset that he would want to hit someone – he would either make himself calm down, or allow himself to shift. For some reason, shifting made him feel better, like cracking your knuckles when they feel tight. He didn’t like to shift. He didn’t want to give in to that part of himself. So every day, he would drink a special tea made from canis root. The tea kept him calm, and made it more difficult for him to shift. But, once in a long while – once a year, or longer – he would allow himself to shift, just to get rid of any of that angry energy.”

“He was angry.”

“He was, sometimes. There was a war going on for much of his life. He never had an easy life, unlike yours. But he did what he could to remain calm. The tea, and praying.”

“Praying?”

“To Shor, mostly. And Talos, sometimes. But praying to Shor kept him calm. He—” I nearly explained to my son that Yrsarald thought he would not be allowed into Sovngarde upon dying, as all werebeasts went to Oblivion to serve a Daedra Lord called Hircine, but the boy didn’t need to know this bit. Not yet, anyway. “I’m not sure why he prayed to Shor. It was just his thing.”

Virald looked away from me and toward his window, closed to keep the early spring chill out. “Can I try the tea?” he asked before looking at me again.

“Sure,” I said, smiling. “Oh, and the other thing.” The boy’s brow lowered. “I avoided it until now, but it needs to be said. You can’t go around telling your sisters – your _siblings_ , or anyone for that matter – that I loved your father more than Stenvar. Of course I loved Yrsarald. That was never a question. And of course his death hurt. Yes, the pain that came with the memory of him delayed my marrying Stenvar, but it wasn’t because I love Stenvar any less. And just because Stenvar isn’t your blood doesn’t mean he loves you any less. He raised you. You’re his son, in every way but blood.”

The child at my chest was finished nursing. I retied the front of my dress and raised the baby to my shoulder, standing as I burped him. As I approached my redhead son, I said, “I love you, Virald. I love you and your sisters and your little brother all the same. I loved your father very, very much, and I love Stenvar. It’s all the same.” I leaned down and kissed Virald’s forehead. Whispering, I added, “If I could bring your father back, if he could be here now, I would do it in a heartbeat. But life goes on, you understand? I will always love Yrsarald. It will always hurt. But the love of others, my love _for_ others keeps me going.”

Virald glared up at me, but eventually, he managed a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: “Weightless” by Courtney Jones

_Her head is warm against my flesh as she presses her ear to my abdomen. With ice-blue eyes, she peers up at me, smiling._

_“I can hear him,” she says._

_I chuckle. “What does he say?”_

_The woman grazes my round belly with her fingertips, tracing small circles around the bulging navel. She kisses just below._

_“I love you, mama,” she says, and her grin spreads wider._

I rose with a gasp, hands springing to my bare stomach. I expected the rotund, firm dome of pregnancy but felt only the leftover pudge. The room was dark but for the moonlight shining in, and Stenvar wasn’t sleeping beside me but rather sitting on the edge of the mattress, hunched over. Across the room, my son was crying.

“Stenvar,” I whispered, “did you check on him?” The man turned his head a bit, but otherwise remained still, silent.

I reached for Stenvar but upon feeling the mattress I lurched back. His side of the bed was soaking wet and stunk of sweat. With the flick of my wrist our candelabra ignited, and the room was awash in golden light. I walked over to Stenvar and felt his forehead and cheek, both damp and febrile, and took his pulse, quick and weak but steady.

“Stenvar, it’s happened again. Do you feel ill? You have a fever.”

His raised a hand to his chest and held his palm there. “Tight,” he rasped.

I opened our window to refresh the air. Stenvar’s face was pained, but he wasn’t clutching at his heart or left arm. My brain was telling me to find a phone and call for an ambulance. That wasn’t going to happen.

This was the third time in two weeks he had had night sweats followed by discomfort in the chest. Then, he insisted it was nothing. Now, I knew it was something. But whatever was going on, heart attack or asthma or some random infection, all that could be done in this very moment was to heal the man and hope that cleansed his body of what ailed him, at least for the moment.

I held his head between my hands and let the golden magic spread from my body to his. The warmth pulsed around us and Stenvar pressed his head to my chest. One of his hands gripped the flesh of my hip while an arm wrapped around my thighs.

“Mara,” he whispered before groaning.

I smiled. “Just your old wifey, my dear pebble. But I’m sure a little help from the Divines wouldn’t hurt.” _Hint, hint, whoever’s listening_.

I let the magic dissipate, and backed away. Stenvar was still red and warm, but at least he didn’t look worse.

“Go sit by the window,” I ordered. “Or take a cold bath.”

Stenvar did as I suggested, and after washing his sweat from my chest I shuffled my way over to the basinet and picked up my child.

“Oh, my,” I whispered. “You are _stinky_ , little man. Little stinky pants.” I carried the hefty four-month-old over to the nested changing table and did the do. The boy was clean and re-wrapped in no time, and my aching breasts begged for the child to nurse. Thankfully, he did.

“Gods, I need a _pump_ ,” I mumbled. “Are you going to eat a lot, little Orion? Hmm? I hope so. Eat up. Drink up. Drink your fill. I’m rambling, now.”

Illness was not something I had experienced often in Skyrim, personally or otherwise, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do about Stenvar. I had suffered food poisoning and something akin to a flu on several occasions, but night sweats, shallow breathing, and rapid heartbeat weren’t either of these things.

“You need to see a healer,” I said to my husband. “A real healer. At the temple. Go at first light.”

Stenvar nodded, said nothing.

Wondering if my dragon sense could tell me anything about Stenvar’s health, I whispered the first word of the life-sensing Shout. Orion stopped nursing, and through the red glow I saw his big dark eyes staring up at me. He laughed and smiled.

“Oh, you like that, do you? Did you hear what I said? _Laas_.”

Orion laughed again. I smiled and closed my eyes, listening for heartbeats and other whispers the magic might bring. Stenvar’s heartrate was still quick, but no longer worrisome. I was not alarmed by anything I sensed. Perhaps the Shout couldn’t sense illness. Perhaps there was no illness.

“Does your left arm hurt?” I asked Stenvar.

“Hmm? No. Nothing hurts, I just... felt like I couldn’t breathe right again. Woke up like that. Heart racin’. I still feel weak. Might be worse than last time.”

“Sounds almost like a panic attack, like I used to get. Though I never sweat like that. Anything going on with you that you haven’t told me about?”

“No. I’m just gettin’ old, Deb.”

“Night sweats and racing hearts aren’t things that happen just because you’re old.”

“Maybe I should sleep elsewhere. Just until we know what’s what. Don’t want you gettin’ sick.”

“Yes. You should sleep elsewhere. At the temple. While being healed and examined by a priestess.”

Stenvar groaned.

. . . . . .

A day passed. Two. On the third morning of hearing nothing from Stenvar, or from Josse who had driven him to the city, my anxiety peaked and I asked Ash to go to the temple for me.

I kept myself busy working in the museum. Today I was alphabetizing yet unsorted books by title (as not all books had authors), integrating them into the museum’s library. We had ten large bookcases, and with these new additions I had to shift everything down and over by two shelves.

I was sliding the fifth volume of _The Wolf Queen_ into its place when a gentle knock sounded from the library entrance. I turned, and the sight of the knocker, partially veiled in shadow, stopped my breath. I nearly dropped the books I was holding and when caught, settled them close to my chest, like armor.

Our gazes met and latched, unwilling to falter. Disbelief, on my part. Was this happening? Could stress and worry cause hallucinations?

The figure stepped fully into the light of the wall sconce. Tall and broad, the warrior’s steel and leather armor glinted against the warm light, glowing. A bare hand that had been resting on the handle of an axe relaxed and slipped to dangle at the figure’s side, fingers fidgeting.

Looking up again, I stepped forward, still wearing my literary armor. In the hallway, red hair flashed against a ray of candlelight as Morgana moved through the shadows. “Museum visitor for you, Deb,” she said before heading toward the house half of the building.

Gawking, the figure and I closed in. The sconce light flickered across the woman’s ice-blue eyes and played with her frizzy, blonde hair, making the fly-aways dance. A series of new wrinkles and young, delicate blue tattoos decorated her face.

In an unexpected move, the woman reached out her right hand to me, palm tilted outwards, thumb up. She was initiating a forearm grasp; she had never done that before. I reached out to receive the standard Skyrim greeting, clasping the woman’s gauntlet. She wouldn’t be able to feel my grip, just the weight of it, but I felt her fingers press against the sleeve of my dress, felt her thumb’s slight caress.

Upstairs, muted by a series of walls separating, came the cries of my infant son. Orion quieted, but then came the soft descending steps of petite Morgana, bringing him to me.

The warrior and I were still connected when Morgana arrived.

“He’s hungry, I think,” said the nurse as she handed off the child to me. She nodded a greeting to the armored warrior whom she did not know and promptly returned to her living space upstairs. Orion was on my breast and drinking before either the warrior or I had a chance to speak. Very likely, she didn’t know what to say either.

Ten years was such a very long time.

“Frea,” I breathed, voice trembling but eager to fill the silence. “What are you doing here?”

The shaman smiled. “I have been making my way to you,” she said softly. “I expected you in Windhelm, but was told to find you here.”

“But... why? You told me you couldn’t leave your people. Leave Solstheim.”

“I have never left them, Deborah. They are here.”

“Here? In Skyrim?”

“In Whiterun Hold. Our camp is not far, a bit east. I came here to ask for your assistance in requesting permission from the landowner to hunt here.”

Orion gurgled, and I performed a quick burp dance and switched him to the other breast. I didn’t bother covering.

“Has something happened to Solstheim for you to come to Skyrim?” I asked.

Nodding, Frea answered, “Yes. It has grown too cold over the years. The animals became scarce in the north, and we cannot live amongst the ash. What is left of the Skaal – there are thirty-three of us now, mainly young ones – agreed that in order to survive, we had to migrate south. Skyrim was the natural choice. We stayed in Eastmarch for a turn of the seasons, unbothered by the landowner, and made our way south as the weather chilled. The hunting is good in a place called The Rift but the weather much too warm in the summer. Now, we are here.” Her eyes narrowed in a pleasing, playful way when she smiled. “Did I not tell you that we would meet again?”

I returned her smile, then lowered my gaze to my son who was oblivious to anything but my nipple.

“You have a family, now,” she said.

“A husband,” I replied, “and four children.” Frea stepped up close and hovered a hand over Orion’s head. My left hand, hanging at my side, bumped into hers, and its fingers became willingly clasped. “This is Orion,” I said quickly. “Vara and Sara are our twins. They’re eight, now. Virald is nine, nearly ten.”

“Virald. The boy from your man, Yrsarald?”

I nodded. “My husband’s name is Stenvar. I think I mentioned him to you.”

Realization slowly formed on her face. “The friend you thought had died.”

The memory, alongside recent events, made me want cry. “Yeah. That’s the one. He wasn’t dead, in the end.”

“Praise be to the All-Maker.”

The fingers of my left hand were still laced with Frea’s when Ash returned.

 

Over lunch, Ash related the news that Stenvar was fine, still at the temple, being monitored by the healers. Danica Pure-Spring herself, the aging head priestess, was presiding over his case. My nerves were calmed, for now.

“He says his bones hurt,” the shaman related about Krikit during her reunion with the excited dog, “but he is very happy.”

“You can talk to animals!?” asked Vara.

Frea smiled. “I can know their feelings, sometimes, yes. But we cannot hold conversations as I am with you.”

Vara and Sara shared a look, then simultaneously responded with the catch-all Norren expression, “ _Frab._ ” Cool.

“What else can you do?” Sara asked.

“Heal,” answered the shaman. “And fight.”

“With that axe?” asked Vara.

Frea nodded.

“Are you truly of the Skaal?” Ash inquired. He and Morgana sat next to each other with the twins across the dining table from Frea and me. “I read a book about them,” he continued. “I thought maybe they were long gone.”

“Not yet,” said the shaman with a polite smile.

The kitchen felt crowded with six people, an infant, a dog, and with three household members not yet here I wondered if I should consider acquiring a second table. I wondered if I should ask Ash and Morgana to find a place of their own.

“Mm, that smells good.” Vara hopped up from the bench and over to the stove to stir the stew pot. Rabbit again, with a mélange of vegetables and herbs. Nothing special, but it did indeed smell good.

“So,” I said to Frea, “tomorrow. A visit with the king? You’re free to stay the night here, though we don’t have any spare beds.”

“I am fine with the floor,” she said. “I have not slept in a bed in two years.”

“No beds? What do you sleep on?” asked Sara.

“The ground. My cloak. Or a bedroll, if I have one with me.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

Frea turned to me and smiled. “It is not so bad.”

Krikit put his muzzle on Frea’s thigh, and the shaman gave him a good scritch behind the ears.

. . . . . .

Well past dinner, Virald was not home yet, and I began to worry. It was not unusual for him to be gone long hours, typically with Levandell these last few years, but he never spent a night away from home before without telling me.

“He’s been doing this more and more, lately,” I said to Frea. Sat at my small desk in my bedroom, she said nothing, only watched and listened as I paced in front of the window and rambled. A lit candle sat on the sill. The window faced southward, toward Levandell’s home. I figured it couldn’t hurt, just in case Virald needed help finding his way.

“Gods know what he gets up to out of the house. I’ve never been able to control him. He’s always been wild. And stubborn. And angry. He’s nearly ten years old, and I worry. I worry that he’ll shift, like his father. Have enough werebear blood in him to shift. He said he’s been drinking this tea that’s supposed to calm the beast in him... but I’m not so sure he actually has been drinking it, like he _wants_ to be like his father. And then there’s the ghost thing.”

“Ghost thing?” Frea finally broke my steady stream of words.

“He resurrected a bluebird.” Frea blinked at me, and I wondered if she understood what I had said. “He res—”

“I heard you, Deborah. Are you certain he did this?”

“I’m certain he can speak with ghosts. Sometimes. Not all the time. He confirmed this when he spoke with a friend of mine. Marcurio, a Priest of Arkay. He speaks with spirits, and Arkay – a god of the Nords. God of life and death. So, Marc tested Virald. He can definitely speak to some ghosts. The angry ones. Upset or sad ones.” I frowned at the shaman. “You can do the same, right?”

Frea pressed her lips together. Her brow creased. “I can.”

“Can you bring animals or people back to life?”

The woman slowly shook her head. “No, I cannot.”

The two of us shared a lingering look that transferred no words or thoughts that I could decipher. It was simply a look, a gaze, a connection. I turned away, arms crossing my chest, to look again out the window.

Frea stood and stepped lightly from the desk to the window. Just a few paces. “I will walk with you to his friend’s house, if you wish,” she said, hand falling on my shoulder. She stood close.

I wanted her to stand closer.

“No,” I whispered. “I know how it will end if I go over there and scold him. If he’s anything like I was as a child... and a teenager... now.”

A low chuckle rumbled in Frea’s throat. “Stubborn and angry?”

“Stubborn, very. Defensive. Even a little vengeful. ‘Don’t eat that,’ my mother would say. So what did I do? I ate it. A lot of it. Almost as revenge. And there isn’t anything wrong with Virald spending the night at his friend’s house.” I sat on the mattress edge. “You have to understand, in my world, when, where I grew up, you could contact someone at anytime, anywhere. When I was a child I had to call – a sort of distance-calling – my parents to tell them what I was doing, where I was. Sometimes. Most of the time. But that can’t be done here. I just have to get used to my children not being able to distance-call me, or me them.”

“You have to trust them,” said Frea.

I forced a smile. “I do. For the most part, I do. Vara and Sara are almost always together or with one of their friends, or with Krikit. I have never known them to do anything that could get them into trouble. And though I worry about them when they’re on their own without an adult – they’ve been doing that for about a year now – there are guard patrols between here and the city, between here and other homesteads and the city, and I have to trust that the children can take care of themselves or that they can just run home if something happens. Stenvar says that it’s safer out here than in some city districts, anyway. I believe him.”

“Do you not trust Virald?”

Frea and I shared another wordless look. “Yes, and no. He’s been out of the house on his own or with his friends since he was five years old. He probably is more capable of taking care of himself outdoors than I am, at this point.” The shaman betrayed a small laugh. “But these last few months, it has just gotten worse. I feel like he will end up in the hills, on his own, forever.”

I reached to my nightstand for my cup and sipped my water. Frea walked away somewhat, slowly, carefully placing each foot in a straight path before the other. An action of boredom, I thought. Perhaps not. She made a half-turn and continued the movements, ending at the wall and turning again, pacing in a square path.

When she finally spoke again, Frea said, “He sounds like me.”

I looked up at the shining warrior woman. Her face fell into a weak frown, mirroring my own expression.

At that moment, footsteps pattered quickly down the hallway, ending in the direction of Virald’s room, concluding in a delicate shutting of his door.

Frea and I shared a smile. “I’m going to check on him,” I said to her.

The children’s bedroom doors did not lock. Stenvar’s insistence. He didn’t even want them to have doors at all. A non-locking door was the compromise. But I still knocked, of course. Everyone deserved fair warning before someone entered their personal domain.

“Yeah,” came my son’s voice from inside the room.

I stepped in, stifled my relief to see he was unharmed, and sat at the edge of his bed.

“Did you have a good day?” I asked him.

“Yep.”

“Did you get some dinner?”

“Yep.”

I nodded, patted his leg, and stood. I considered introducing him to Frea right then, but it was rather late, and Virald appeared tired.

“Do me a favor?” I asked my son. Virald gazed up at me, his blue eyes warm and velvety in the candlelight. “Don’t flee tomorrow morning. There’s someone I want you to meet.” I paused, thinking. “Someone you need to meet.”

Virald shrugged, and fluffed his pillow before flopping himself down.

. . . . . .

Frea slept in my bed that night. Next to me. Nothing else happened but sleep.

But I wanted something to happen. Some deep, carnal part of me that didn’t care about the fact that I was married wanted very much for something to happen. Though, I admitted to myself, none of the vow-equivalent words Stenvar or I spoke at our wedding had included anything about exclusivity. It was simply an understood unspoken agreement between us. Probably.

Frea said the bed was too soft. I said she was crazy.

I had wanted to hold Frea. Be held by her. More than that, sure, but mostly just the simple act of being held as a means of comfort. Instead, in the morning, I drank tea. A poor substitute for both cuddles or coffee.

After breakfast, I introduced Frea to Virald. The boy seemed less annoyed when he learned that the woman was from Solstheim. For a while, they simply got to know one another. She let him ask questions about her homeland, about werebears. It did not take long for the two of them to begin speaking about his newfound power, and for Frea to assess whether or not said power was shamanic, akin to hers or something different.

I was called away by a crying Orion, and then needed to deal with a small crisis involving something terribly sticky, likely old taffy, that had become stuck in Sara’s hair. A simple frost spell got most of it out without the need of scissors.

When I returned to Virald’s room, I watched from the hallway as he and Frea pressed their palms together, their hands and arms bathed in a swirl of golden and pale blue light. They laughed.

They talked more about his powers, about the whispers and how he might be able to ignore them, and when he shouldn’t. Finally, Frea thanked Virald for speaking with him and left his room, closing the door behind her. She clutched my upper arm as she walked me to my bedroom.

“Well?” I asked.

Frea loosened her grip and walked up to the large open window. She sat on the sill and, arms crossed, gazed at me.

“I do think the boy has a power not unlike mine,” she finally said.

In both comprehension and submission, my head bobbed in a series of slow nods. “Alright. Alright... So, what do we do now? You told him how he might ignore the voices.”

“I think Virald should train with me.”

 _Oh._ I stared at the woman as my thoughts course-corrected. “W-with you?”

“Yes. With me, in my camp. I hope to move it closer to here, so that he will never be very far from home. Though I suspect we will want to move camp with the change of seasons.”

I faced Frea, mouth agape, speechless, mind concentrated more on the gnawing in my stomach than on the conversation at hand.

Frea stood and slowly approached me. She reached out and grasped my elbows.

“There are no others with this power among the Skaal,” she said softly. “As long as I have lived, there was only me and my father, and he has been dead for years. My own blood doesn’t even—” Frea stopped herself, eyes wide. Frowning, she turned away and walked back towards the window. Into the distance she peered, and when a breeze picked up she closed her eyes.

“There is no one else,” she said to the wind. Her fingernails dug into the woodgrain of the sill.

Stepping to the woman’s side, I hooked one of her frizzy braids with my thumb and felt the length of it, grazing her neck in the process. The woman’s physical response was minute, but noticeable. It was either a shiver, or a flinch. I pulled my hand away.

“When?” I asked. “And for how long?”

The shaman turned, her smile soft and sad. “As soon as the child wishes, and for as long as he needs.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: “Weightless” by Courtney Jones

Frea and I – and Orion in his sling – made the not-so-short journey on foot to the palace.

We definitely needed a second horse and cart.

The trip to the palace would take about two hours, judging by the sun’s position when we arrived at the Hall of the Dead – Orion needed a diaper change – where Marcurio and his family lived and where Josse was staying while Stenvar was at the temple next door. It was probably no coincidence that the temple where people were healed was a breath away from the temple where people were entombed.

Finally, I thought to myself, Marcurio and Bird could meet Frea. ‘Solstheim Frea’. The two men gave me a look that thankfully neither Frea nor Flavia nor Josse noticed and which I ignored.

Upon meeting, Josse reached out to Frea in greeting. The Skaal shaman had likely picked up the custom while traveling through this country, as the Skaal did not greet others in this way. The two women were aesthetic opposites, Josse dark and Frea fair, but both were considerably intimidating. Josse introduced herself as my housecarl, a term that had to be explained to Frea. We made certain that the woman didn’t think I had a slave.

“It’s an honor to serve as housecarl to anyone,” said Josse as we strolled toward the Temple of Kynareth. “But to serve the Dragonborn, a special honor. I don’t mind the work as a steward either. Wages are good. It’s better than my old life as a sellsword, anyway. And it doesn’t hurt that she’s married to an old friend of mine.”

“Not to mention that Tongue thing,” I said. Frea shot me a quizzical look. I laughed, and said, “Josse is a Tongue. She can Shout. That is where she got the scar on her cheek, from Kyne. Kynareth.” I waved my hand. “I’ll let Josse tell you about it, later.”

We stopped before the temple. Josse entered alone. Frea and I admired the spring blossoms of the plants that grew around the courtyard. Unfortunately, Gildergreen was not yet in bloom, only sporting buds on its many branches. Only a handful of minutes passed before Josse returned, her expression unreadable.

“No change,” she said. “He’s not worse, though. Had the sweats again last night, heart racing. All the same, he says. They want him to stay longer. They don’t know anything yet. They’re just happy he’s eating and drinking. Said it’s all downhill when someone stops getting hungry.”

“Take me to him,” said Frea to Josse. To me, she said, “If you do not mind.”

“What do you think you can do? Have you heard of something like that before? Sweating and fast heartbeats?”

“No, but I can ask the All-Maker, when I observe your man. Perhaps the All-Maker will listen. Perhaps he will know.”

Josse looked confused. I didn’t feel like explaining. Instead I silently motioned for Frea to do as she pleased. Outside the temple, on a bench backing the wood lattice surrounding the courtyard, I waited, child asleep at my chest.

This wasn’t how I wanted Stenvar and Frea to meet, if they were to ever meet. He knew who she was, knew who she was to me, what happened. The only blessing was that I would not be there in the room to be bombarded by the awkwardness.

Children played in and around the courtyard, running around, giggling. A few couples strolled by, holding hands, sometimes embracing. Several people pressed their palms to Gildergreen and sent up a silent prayer. A known beggar came by, too, but asked me for no coin. But every single person who passed me by as I sat in the courtyard, every single one, greeted me.

Hello, Dragonborn. Hail, Dragonborn. Good morning, Dragonborn, and blessings to your child. And from the children, Shout for us, Dragonborn. Shake the ground, would you?

I smiled. I spoke greetings. I denied the children a Shout, explaining that it would frighten Orion and be disrespectful to Kyne to show off like that.

When the sun was high, Sara and Vara and Krikit found me. They were accompanied by Sighulf and a girl I knew to be Vara’s friend but had forgotten the name of. Something that started with an A, maybe. The girls asked about their father. He was fine, I told them. Just needed to rest more. I was only waiting for Frea to finish something before we walked to the palace.

The children left, Krikit hobbling along. I waited. Each time someone exited the temple, my heart stopped.

Orion was nursing when Frea and Josse finally emerged. The two intimidating women approached, stone-faced, and a moment later, Stenvar followed.

I stood, as quickly as I could without disturbing Orion. My breath hitched.

“You’re alright?” I asked, approaching my husband. “Is it not infectious?”

“No,” he said with a small smile. “Frea doesn’t think it’s infectious, and Danica agrees.”

Air returned to my lungs in full and I grasped the back of Stenvar’s neck. My fingers clung to his shirt collar, and we leaned in over the nursing Orion for a quick kiss.

“So,” he said as he lifted the draping top of my nursing shirt over my exposed breast, “you’re goin’ to the palace.”

I nodded. “Frea needs to speak with Balgruuf.”

“Right.”

“Why don’t you and Josse wait at Marc’s place? We’ll all return home together, after.”

“Sounds good,” said Josse. She approached Stenvar and playfully smacked him on the back. “C’mon, old man. Let’s get some lunch.”

. . . . . .

The meeting with Balgruuf went as well as we could have hoped. Without needing much convincing, after hearing from me what Frea and the Skaal have been through, the king gave Frea written permission to live and hunt in the reaches of his Hold. The king’s steward gave her a map, landmarks drawn out, so she’d know just where those reaches were. The permit would last for an entire year, after which Frea must meet with Balgruuf again to update him on the tribe’s status – population, mainly – and to discuss renewing the permit.

Upon returning to the Hall of the Dead, I started into the house, but Frea grabbed hold of my sleeve.

“Wait, Deborah,” she called as I turned back. “If you do not mind, I will return to my people. They need to know it is alright to hunt now.”

“Alright, Frea.” I reached for the woman’s forearm and grasped it, tightly. “When... when will you..?”

The shaman smiled, eyes sparkling. “We will make our way to you, as we have been. It is not easy, moving a camp with so many young ones. We will meet again soon. Thank you, for your help.” The woman clutched at my arm firmly before pulling away.

 

Inside the temple, Stenvar was missing, and I was told to find him in the crypts below. It didn’t take long to find him, partially from using my senses, but mostly because he wasn’t all that deep into the caverns. He had placed a torch on a sconce and was standing in front of a series of open crypts in stacks of three, where preserved bodies were laid to rest. Desiccated, they looked too much like draugrs for my comfort.

“Why are you down here?” I called to my husband.

He jumped a little and turned, smiled briefly. “Visiting some old friends,” he said before turning back to the bodies.

I approached him, letting the Candlelight spell I had cast dissipate. The three crypts he stood before had nameplates, small wooden plaques, painted.

Fralia Gray-Mane. Eorlund Gray-Mane. Vignar Gray-Mane.

“Your relatives,” I said.

“Aunt, uncle,” he said and, pointing to Vignar, added, “father.”

“Wow.”

It wasn’t so scary, anymore, after knowing who these few dead folks were. I reached around Stenvar to hold him to me, rub his back.

“Don’t put me down here,” Stenvar said.

“Hm? No? You want to be burned?”

“Nah. Just bury me. On our property somewhere.” He then added, “Away from the well, though.”

“Why out there? You don’t want to end up like this?” I gestured to the crypts.

“Right. I want a grave. Out in the open. Become part of the earth but, leave my mark.”

“Hmph.” I smiled and reached for Stenvar’s hand. “You _have_ left your mark, pebble. But, sure, whatever you want. You can even pick the spot. We’ll plant a tree there. Make a whole ceremony of it.”

My husband turned to me and offered a small smile. “Would you lie there, next to me? Or do ya still wanna be burned?”

I looked away, fixed my gaze on Vignar’s nameplate “I still want to be burned. Doesn’t mean I can’t lie there next to you. I’ll just be smaller.”

Stenvar chuckled and squeezed my hand.

“Was he a good father?” I asked.

“Good enough, I guess. Kept me alive. Was kind of an ass after Mom died, but, then again, so was I.”

“I’ve never known you to be an ass.”

“Yeah, well...” He cleared his throat. “I like _you_.”

We laughed. I patted his bum.

“So, what did the healers find in you? Do they know what’s wrong?”

Stenvar crossed his arms over his chest and leaned on the crypt’s stone wall. His eyes, more green in the torch light, were peering at his father’s corpse. “Yeah,” he said.

I eyed my husband. “Well?”

The man pursed his lips. “There isn’t a name for it, that we knew of. Not even Danica or the other healers knew. But Danica has seen it before, she thinks, just slightly different, no night sweats in those cases. It’s just a thing that takes older folks slowly – some younger, but mainly older. You can’t get it from someone. It just happens. And you can’t heal it out of ya. Life growin’ inside that shouldn’t be there, Danica said.”

The sound of my heartbeat was suddenly much too loud.

“Deb?”

My mouth was a desert.

“Sweetheart?”

“ _Cancer_ ,” I breathed. The English word. “The disease. S-something wrong growing inside. It’s called _cancer_.” I closed my eyes and whispered, “You have _cancer._ ”

“‘ _Kan-sur’_ ,” he repeated. “So, something you know about?”

I gave him a terse nod. “I know about it.”

“And?” Stenvar grasped my upper arms, turned me towards him and gave me a little shake. “How is it cured? Is there a cure?”

Tears were already rolling down my cheeks when I opened my eyes. I shook my head. “Not here. Not outside my world, that I know of. Unless Danica knows of something.”

Stenvar loosed his grip on me and turned away. He raised his hands to his head, cradling the back of it. “I don’t understand. Magic can heal the sick, potions can repair bodies. I know magic can’t fix everything, achy bones n’ such, but why not this?”

“Because _cancer_ is a part of you, Stenvar. It’s like... growing an extra stomach, only that extra stomach will eat your real stomach, killing you slowly. The only way to stop it is with strong medicine that almost certainly doesn’t exist here.”

I needed to sit down. Why wasn’t there a place to sit down?

“I need to get out of here,” I said.

I made to leave, but Stenvar grabbed my forearm and pulled me back and kept pulling until I was trapped by his arms in a tight, desperate embrace.

There we stood, quiet but for our crying, still but for slight swaying. The dance of two people accepting a fate that couldn’t be escaped, both wanting to crumble, but together, standing. Barely.

“N’ when I die, don’t burn me,” Stenvar crooned into my ear, low and gravelly, after the long silence. “With mead, cover my bones.” He backed away somewhat, nose brushing mine, mouth pitching into a small smile. “Place mugs at my foot n’ head.” He kissed the corner of my mouth, the side of my nose, the middle of my brow.

I recognized the song he was muttering. He had sung it years ago, so many years ago, in that tavern in Winterhold, and again, in his little house there, just before ravishing me.

“And then,” Stenvar continued in his quiet sing-song voice, “I know I’ll’ve been saved.” He kissed my temple. “My nose is red like wine. I’m as sad as the clouded sky. And, yet... I guess, before I stop, we oughta drink another drop.”

 

Home, finally, Stenvar and I immediately retired to bed and tore into one another. Healing magic had this effect on him, generally, and even ill he said the constant barrage of heat and magic made him feel twenty years younger. And we were going to capitalize on that feeling.

Lips pressed. Tongues licked. Teeth nibbled everywhere, wanting to devour every bit. In no time at all Stenvar was on me, in me, cradling my face between his palms and stealing what breath I had left with his zealous kisses.

Stenvar didn’t last long. A product of urgency and renewed nuance, possibly. After a brief respite following his release, Stenvar caressed and massaged every bit he could, and kissed his way down my body. His tongue and lips never failed to send me to Oblivion and back, and ‘round again for a second go.

. . . . . .

The tint outside had changed, telling me the sun was getting ready to set. Neither Stenvar or I had moved from the bed aside from to deal with Orion. Over the years I had grown accustomed to not caring if an infant was in the room when I made love. I still cared, though, when the child could ask what we were doing.

For hours, the pair of us napped, cuddled, and kissed each other like teenagers, but now we simply looked at one another, appreciating every line, every scar, every twinkle of the eye. Despite the dire news, we were happy. It was an odd feeling, to say the least.

When the sky turned a brilliant orange, Stenvar said, still looking at me, “She’s nice.”

“Hm? Who?”

“Frea. Smart, too. Kind of scary.”

I snorted. “Yeah. She is.”

“Quite beautiful, as well.” He caressed my hair, cheek, earlobe. “All of that... I can see what you like about her.”

Like. He said ‘like’, present tense. Was that on purpose?

“She told me why she and her Skaal are here,” he said. “The climate, and you.” I frowned and looked away until Stenvar caught my chin, turning my face to meet his. “Deb. Is there anything there, still? Between her and you.”

My mouth clenched shut. I didn’t want to have this conversation, but his searing gaze provoked a response.

“You were sick,” I said. “ _Are_ sick. Last night, you were... I wanted... damn it.”

“It’s alright. Just tell me.”

Our foreheads came together. We breathed each other in. “There are feelings,” I said. “I guess... they never went away. They were forgotten, until...” I exhaled through my nose, and my fingers clung to Stenvar’s skin. “I have you. I love you. You’re all I need.”

“Need and want are two very different things, Deb.”

“I _want_ you to be healthy and live a long gods-damn life. That’s what I want.”

Stenvar smiled, and said, “I have lived a long life. I’m old and still kickin’, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“You’re _not_ old, Stenvar.”

“Maybe not in your magical future land where humans see one hundred years, but here, sweetheart, I’m near ancient.”

“Gods damn it...”

“Deb,” he said, hands anchoring me, “listen. I know you’ve been exposed to mainly couples – Bird n’ Marc, your parents, you n’ Yrsarald, Ash n’ Morgana, and, true, most everyone – but that’s not all there is to love, or all there is to sex. Sometimes people need more, want more, or just go where life takes them. Gods _know_ I know what I’m talkin’ about. Me, I don’t need more. I’ve had plenty, in my past. With you I’ve been content – more than content, with what I have.” He knuckle-brushed my cheek. “But I’m tired. It’s been easy with you bein’ with child, and nursin’ now, but I can’t even remember the last time we fooled around before today. Our wedding day, I guess.” Stenvar let out a long, sighing groan. “I should’ve known something was wrong with me, just from that. Today—” he chuckled “—today was a surprise.” He shifted position, turning us so that I lay down and he leaned over me.

“So,” he continued, “what I’m tryin’ to say, is if you need or want something more, something I can’t give, or if I’m... when I’m no longer around, you have my blessing to get it.”

“No, Stenvar. You’re—damn it, you’re not dead yet! I’m not going to run off into the field with Frea just because you’re sick!”

Stenvar looked surprised. He felt his chest, smoothing his palms up and down his vast tattoo veiled by grey chest hair. He flicked one of his nipples then looked at me again. “Nope, not dead yet.”

Eyes closed, I sighed through my nose.

He was grinning when I looked again. The man actually laughed. “So you do want to run off with her, eventually.”

“Stenvar...”

“Sweetheart, I’m just tryin’ to joke, here. I’d rather laugh than cry, wouldn’t you?”

Grumbling, I walked over to the washbasin to clean myself of our earlier lovemaking. “She could have a wife, you know,” I said as I scrubbed. “A husband. Both. Ten of each. Or she might not want anyone. I haven’t asked, and she hasn’t said. Not that this matters, because I am married to _you_. I’m not one to hop from bed to bed.”

“This coming from a woman who explained to her children that it’s natural to love more than one person.”

“Not at the same time! I mean, there isn’t anything wrong with it, but I just never—I just don’t think I could handle it. I’d feel guilty all the time. I wanted... damn it, I feel guilty for even _thinking_ about her that way!”

“There isn’t anything to feel guilty for, love.”

“Sure there is!” I slapped the washcloth on the rim of the heavy bowl and stomped my way back to the bed, sitting down on my side of the mattress, facing away. My shoulders sank as I exhaled, long and deep. My fingers dug into the mattress.

“I want you,” I said. “I want _you_ , and I need _you_ , for as long as I have you.”

Stenvar moved across the mattress, kneeling, holding me from behind. In my ear, he whispered, “And you have me. Until my last breath, you have me.”


	9. Chapter 9

The Skaal camp, not far at all from my home, mainly consisted of about two dozen lean-to structures, one large central fire, and several more smaller campfires. Hides were set up on stretchers, some still being scraped clean. Strips of meat hanging from branch-and-twig stands swayed in the breeze, drying their way to jerky. Several people were weaving baskets, others sewing hides. And children – so many children – helped where they could.

“We are still adapting to the warmer weather of the mainland,” Frea said as we walked by a team of girls and boys working together on what looked like a thin hide, short-sleeved outfit. “We still have our winter gear. It does get cold at night, sometimes. But the spring and summer so far here in Whiterun Hold do seem to be to everyone’s liking. The autumn may not be. We may move south, though how much warmer it is south of the city, I do not know.”

“I think Riverwood, or what’s left of it, is a decent enough place to live year-round. If you like fish. The southern limits of the hold are only about a day’s ride away from here. The western border is furthest.”

“The west has good hunting grounds, I am told. Mammoths?” She turned to me, smiling broadly. “I would like to see a mammoth.”

“You haven’t seen one yet?”

“No. Strange, is it not? I am told they used to graze in Eastmarch, in the southern parts, but have concentrated west now. In this hold, perhaps.”

“You’ll see one eventually. Just... be careful, when you do.”

Frea grasped my hand briefly before speeding up her pace.

She was taking me to the one actual structure they had built, a sort of yurt made out of elk and cattle bones, branches, and found mammoth tusks and ribs, covered in various hides and fabrics. Frea opened the flap for me and I hunched my way inside.

A small hearth fire glowed within, letting up a delicate wisp of smoke that exited the yurt through a central gap in the domed hides. The fire was near embers, and Frea gave it a poke, added some sticks.

Virald sat silently at the back of the yurt, legs crossed and eyes closed, meditating. The sight was disorienting. Frea signaled for me to be silent, and not long after, ushered me out of the yurt.

“He has been in this state for three days, now,” she told me.

“What!?”

“He is fine, I assure you.”

“Three—he needs water, Frea. Food! He’s—”

“He is fine. The All-Maker will not let harm befall him. Come,” she said, again grasping my hand. “There is someone I would like you to meet.”

Frea led me by hand to a group of children of varying ages who were busy at work preparing different kinds of foods. A striking girl, strongly tanned with sun-bleached blonde curls, ground a cobble against a boulder, turning wheat into flour. The muscles of her upper arms, exposed by her sleeveless top, showed impressive strength for a girl of maybe ten or so years.

“Kria,” called Frea, and the flour-grinder looked up.

“Hi, mama,” she said with a smile before setting down her pestle. The two hugged, and Frea leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

A distant memory tickled its way back into my thoughts. Solstheim. A young Skaal girl of about two, blonde curls, claimed as a niece to Frea.

“Deborah,” the shaman called, “this is my daughter, Kria.”

My subconscious slapped the stun out of me, and I reached out to the girl in the customary way. “Kria,” I repeated. “Lovely to meet you.”

I shot Frea a stern look, but replaced it quickly with a smile.

 

As Kria and the other children showed me how they baked bread, I stood aside Frea and whispered, “Daughter?”

Frea answered my simple question with a guilty look before turning away. “You remember her.”

“I remember meeting your niece. Did you adopt your niece?”

“No. Kria is my daughter.”

“Then why...?”

“I do not know why,” she answered quickly and under her breath. “Perhaps... perhaps, then, there was a part of me that still did not trust you. Not with this information.”

“This is sensitive information?”

Frea looked to me and then back to the children. “It was, at the time. I had made an enemy in Torug, in the Herma Mora. I had lost control over my people for a time. Knowledge, knowledge of my bloodline... this was something I could control.” Turning to me fully, her eyes pleading, she said, “Forgive me?”

My hand, as if on instinct, reached up to the woman’s face. My palm cradled her jaw, thumb caressed her cheek. We shared a smile and something else, unspoken. I let my hand fall away from Frea and took in a deep breath, filling my previously stilled lungs.

“Mom?” came a familiar voice from behind me. I turned to see Virald, bright-eyed and ash-stained. My son trotted up to me and flung his arms around my waist. Face buried against my dress, he mumbled, “I missed you.”

. . . . . .

“I heard a person yesterday!” Virald exclaimed as we dined on venison stew. “I mean, a dead one. A child.”

“A child?”

He nodded. “There was an accident on a farm a bit west of the city. A horse stomped him and he died. He didn’t know he was dead and he was lost and I helped him.”

“Oh, wow.” I turned to Frea for confirmation. She nodded. “Well, that was very kind of you.”

“And my headaches are gone.”

I frowned. “You had headaches?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I haven’t had one in weeks!”

“Well that’s great, love. Are you... enjoying yourself? You’re not only practicing with your powers and meditating, I hope.”

“The children know how to have fun, Deborah,” said Frea.

“Well, good,” I replied. To Virald, I asked, “Have you made any friends? Levandell misses you. He hopes you’ll visit him soon.”

At that Virald smiled and blushed, and looked down at his dinner. He giggled.

“What?” I asked, starting to giggle along with him.

Virald never answered my question, but with big, darkened eyes, turned his gaze to his right, toward Frea’s golden daughter who tore into a piece of bread like a lion did a zebra.

. . . . . .

As Frea washed her hands in the nearby creek, I expressed a bit of milk from my breasts, which were much too full for comfort. I had to return home soon.

“I could help you with this,” Frea commented with a smirk.

I laughed. “Thank you, but I just need to let out a little. I’ll be alright until I reach home.”

“I will escort you.”

“No, it’s fine. I have Apple; I’ll be home before dark.” Her eyes lingered; I pretended not to notice.

“Next time you come,” she said, “bring the baby. Stay the night.”

“I thought about it. Maybe, next time. I should not have waited so long to visit, but Stenvar went west to see about one of his properties, and then Flavia got her menses for the first time and it was just... chaos.”

“And how is Stenvar?”

I retucked my breasts and tightened my binding while I contemplated an answer. “He has good days,” I finally said, “and bad. Good weeks, and bad. He will travel less, soon, he claims. There were just some things he had to see to in person.”

Hand in hand, Frea and I began our walk back to camp.

“When might you return?” she asked.

“I don’t know. One month is too long. And you are so close now...” I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back. “I will see.”

“I can also bring Virald to you for a visit.”

“This is true. It will be his tenth birthday, soon.”

By Frea’s glance, she understood the connotation of my words.

The dry shortgrass crunched under our boots as the subtle sounds of the Skaal camp grew louder.

“I am considering learning to ride a horse,” said Frea.

“Oh yeah?”

She nodded. “They are expensive, but there are some wild herds to the west. I do not know the first thing about the beasts but, I imagine they might prove useful. Perhaps one can be tamed.”

“Well, I’m sure someone in the city can help you with that. I don’t know anything about it either. Our one horse is the colt of Stenvar’s mare. She died a few years ago. So, we didn’t have to tame him. But I can tell you that yes, from what I know of other peoples – peoples in my world, at least – who lived as you do, horses became very valuable, helpful. You’re no longer living in the frozen north where horses cannot survive.”

“Indeed.”

As we entered the camp, I pulled my hand out of Frea’s. We passed one couple who had five children, busy constructing a yurt of their own. Around one of the smaller campfires, children roasted something on sticks. And finally, we came to the shaman’s hut, outside of which sat Kria and Virald.

The pair didn’t notice our return. Kria was preoccupied, weaving blue and red mountain flowers into a crown, and Virald was oblivious to the world as he watched her.

. . . . . .

“He shows much promise in his abilities,” Frea related to Stenvar and I as Virald ran around the backyard with Vara, Sara, Krikit, and Kria. “I spent many days asking myself why the All-Maker would bless someone not of Skaal blood to have such power, as his truly does emulate that of my father. I have not been given the answer, but I do not question any longer that he is, indeed, a shaman.”

“And I suppose you’ll want him to continue to spend his days with you,” said Stenvar.

“What I want does not matter. It is what is necessary if Virald is to understand his power, and necessary if I am to teach the Skaal ways to another.”

“The Skaal ways?” I asked. “You have twenty Skaal children to teach this to, including your own daughter. Virald is not Skaal.”

“He is Skaal-friend,” she said, turning to Stenvar and me. “As are you. But Virald also has northern blood by his father. Though the werebears have been secluded for generations, they were once part of our clan. Some still claim to be. The All-Maker saw it in his wisdom to bestow these gifts to your son and not my daughter for reasons we cannot fully understand. All we can do is embrace this decision, or denounce it.”

That Virald was happier now more than ever was undeniable. He was no longer angry, or impatient, or practicing with his powers in secret, ashamed.

My son had found himself.

That he did so close to home, and under the guidance of a trusted friend, I had to consider myself lucky. I feared to think what would have happened had this gone on any longer without Frea coming along.

“Then I suppose,” began Stenvar, “our son is your new apprentice, if ya can call it that.”

Frea smiled at my husband. “Yes. That is a good word for it.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: “Landslide” by Robyn Sherwell, and then “Long Time Traveller” by The Wailin’ Jennys
> 
>  
> 
> This is the last update for a while, and the end of the second part of this novel. Stay tuned.
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>  
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>  **Content warning:** Mild NSFW stuff below, and something sad.

_29 Last Seed, 4E 214_

_Dearest Brelyna,_

_All of us here are beyond happy to learn you are now an instructor at the College. And it’s great that they found a job for Jenassa. I think she’ll make a fine courier. Bandits will think twice about attacking her on the road!_

_(I am including a letter from Marc with mine in this package.)_

_Stenvar and I thought you might like the enclosed pendant. It’s said to be a symbol of Azura, a very old one. And even if it isn’t, it’s still a lovely piece of jewelry that you can have enchanted. It was within one of those crates I used to get from an anonymous donor. The deliveries stopped a few years ago, but I still have five that I haven’t even looked inside yet!_

_We’ve also enclosed some dragonbone bolts that will hopefully work with Jen’s crossbow. If not, maybe someone can modify them to fit. If you weren’t aware, dragonbone is one of the toughest materials available, and unlike most metals can pierce a dragon’s scales. I know there hasn’t been any sightings in years, but, just in case._

_I wanted to let you know that Stenvar’s health is failing. Apparently this is normal for a Nord of his age. He claims were it not for all those times he’s been exposed to healing magic and the like, he’d be dead already. The disease he has worked slowly, but his bad days are more frequent lately. If there are any books up at the College regarding diseases that grow from within, that you cannot contract from someone, please let us know. I think the disease has spread to his lungs, if not actually started there. I don’t know how much longer he has. Perhaps it is time for you and Jen to visit?_

_The children are doing very well. They_

 

A burst of song startled me, and ink splattered from my quill onto the paper. From my bedroom window I could see Stenvar standing outside near a grove of trees and scrub. He sang loudly an old children’s song about a fox that repeatedly stole a farmer’s chickens to feed its kits.

Concerned, I made my way outside.

“Stenvar?” I called as he sang about how yummy the chickens were to the foxes.

When I called his name a second time, the chorus was interrupted by Stenvar’s hacking cough, and he keeled over behind a bush. I ran to him, and held the man as he appeared to hack up a part of his lung.

Healing magic from one hand. A calming spell from the other. The mix was meant to clot whatever bleed had started and stop him from coughing more. It always worked. Stenvar lay down on the grass, eyes closed. He blindly searched for his canteen, and I helped him with it before lying down beside him.

While he recovered, I stroked his shaved scalp. “Were you serenading the chickens?” I asked. “Odd choice of song.”

Stenvar chuckled, which made him cough a little. “Nah. Just singin’.”

“Not that I mind, but you could sing more gently, give your lungs a break.”

“No point in that,” he replied and drank more water. The man turned, leaned on his elbow, and gazed down at me, smiling.

“What?” I asked, chuckling.

Stenvar leaned in, and quickly his lips were pressed to mine in a fierce kiss. I tried to push him away, but even dying the man was twice as strong as me. Finally he relented, and I caught my breath.

“Always the same, with you and the healing spells,” I muttered.

“What can I say?” He was grinning wildly. “Your magic has a particular effect on me.”

I laughed, and he gnawed at my neck like a playful puppy. I tried to keep him at a distance, failing yet again.

“Come on,” I said through my giggling. “If you want to fool around, let’s go inside.”

“Nah,” he said before shifting downward.

“Stenvar,” I hissed in a whisper, “the children will see!”

“They can’t see through the bushes.” Stenvar lifted the skirt of my dress. “And even if they could, they know what goes on.” He grinned before diving between my legs.

Healing magic was like adrenaline to Stenvar. Always had been. I often wondered if the spells had the same effect on other people, or if my husband just had a strangely intense reaction. I never looked into it.

Stenvar and his tongue brought me to climax quickly. He didn’t bother to undress, and simply lowered his trousers and loincloth, exposing his half-hardened cock. I reached forward and gave him the spark he needed, a weak lightning spell combined with healing magic. The shaft hardened in my hand, and I watched as I gave it a few tugs, ever-entranced by the old, blurred arrow tattoo that ran the length of his foreskin. Stenvar had long since considered that the magic he had invested in the tattoo – one that was meant to cure infertility in men – did indeed work, in the end.

 _It just waited for you to come along_ , he had said.

We kissed as he thrusted, muting my moans. He moved slowly, deeply, trying to last as long as possible. But before he climaxed, he tired. His arms trembled, his thrusts shallowed, his face reddened.

“Lay on your back,” I whispered while gently pushing against his chest.

Stenvar obeyed. I leaned forward and took him in my mouth. He didn’t last very long, after that.

We cleaned our hands on the grass and readjusted our clothing. In the shade of our lone apple tree we lay in each other’s arms as the afternoon crept on and the air chilled. A stronger wind mussed my loose, long hair even further, and as I attempted to wrangle the tresses, a ripe, red apple fell directly onto my right breast.

Stenvar burst into rasping laughter while I cupped the assaulted flesh, silently wailing with the pain.

The man was flaming red with laughter.

“I hate you,” I grumbled.

“I love you, too,” Stenvar said through a grin. He leaned in and kissed my sore breast, then my neck, and then my lips. “Better?” he asked.

It was, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “A little. Maybe I just need a few more kisses.”

Stenvar chuckled, and complied.

 

My husband was buried beneath that apple tree.

A fitting resting place, he had joked before his death, to nourish the tree that had punched me in the tit.

His funeral was widely attended, even by Brelyna and Jenassa who were able to make the four-day journey from Winterhold. There was no wake, or anything like that. Stenvar was long buried before any public ceremony took place. As requested, he was buried with flagons of mead set at his head and feet, his favorite sword (the one given to him by the Jarl of Winterhold when he was named Thane), and he was wearing his amulet of Dibella and his wedding clothes. And, as requested, a full barrel’s worth of mead was splashed over his body, a libation to the gods. This was one of the old Nord ways to bury someone, Stenvar had told me, making sacrifices and burying people with prized possessions. I told him the practice was familiar to me, from my world’s past.

My husband might not have been a historian, but he was certainly interested in and knowledgeable of such things. His grave in the end was more fitting than either he or I had initially thought – hundreds of years from now, someone would come along and find him and marvel at what a great archaeological find it was.

At the public funeral, one of Stenvar’s favorite dirges was sung by several Dibellan priestesses. The women sang his soul to his goddess as they said farewell to his loved ones for him. One lyric in particular stood out: that Stenvar would forever walk in a field of flowers.

When the women sang that line, I knew Stenvar’s soul was exactly where it should be. I knew he was at peace.

My husband died smiling, one hand in mine, the other grasping his amulet.

 _I see it_ , he had whispered to me in his final moments, eyes glassy and expressionless.

 _See what?_ I had asked.

_Flowers. Flowers._


	11. Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: “The Dragonborn Comes” by Erutan  
> Disclaimer: Erutan owns the additional verse to “The Dragonborn Comes”

 

 

 

**— 3 —**

**_LIFE_ **

**Chapter 11**

In typical Nord fashion, friends and loved ones were to drink and feast for three days and nights after Stenvar’s public funeral. People congregated at the Drunken Huntsman, located within Whiterun not far from the main gates. I didn’t want to attend. I wanted to stay at home with my children, with my infant son. I wanted quiet. I wanted to keep my eye on Krikit, who had been acting strangely since Stenvar’s death. But Ash and Morgana convinced me to go, at least for a short while. I was still breastfeeding so staying long was not an option, anyway.

Frea, who had attended the funeral after escorting Virald home, came with me to the tavern, offering to act the bodyguard while Josse stayed with my family. I promised my housecarl two days and nights off after this evening, so she too could join in the funeral feasts and festivities.

We walked to the tavern briskly, and in silence. Not enjoying an evening stroll. not holding hands, not even astride. Frea walked behind me, guarding, until we reached the tavern and she entered before me. A simple precaution, preceded by a stiff smile.

The only thing that assaulted us upon opening the tavern door was the smell of smoke, sweat, and mead, the roar of revelers, and music. Though we could hear this cacophony from outside, the solid wooden door created an impressive sound barrier until opened.

I stood in the doorway a moment, allowing my eyes to adjust to the onslaught of a bright hearth fire, and allowing my body to build up a modicum of resistance to the sensory overload. Someone recognized me, and a voice I did not recognize called my name over the din. Many patrons turned and cheered, raising their glasses or food in the air. Frea clapped my shoulder and grinned, briefly. While people moved in to greet me, offering condolences and other niceties, Frea maintained her position just behind my left flank. I doubted anyone in this crowd would have started any trouble, but I was grateful for her vigilance.  

Jenassa and Brelyna were within, chatting with women I recognized as Dibellan priestesses. Jon was singing and playing his lute, and his wife Olfina was wrangling a small herd of children, including her own. The song Jon was singing was an old favorite of bards in Skyrim, one that denounced the evils of the Empire.

Elrindir, the redheaded, objectively attractive Bosmer who owned the Huntsman, walked over and handed me a full stein of mead.

“The Dragonborn drinks for free,” he declared before weaving his way back towards the bar too quickly for me to return the drink.

I turned to Frea, who by her look understood my predicament, if one could call it that. She took the stein from my hand, tilted back her head, and downed the fermented honey in a series of quick, large gulps. She nearly lost her last mouthful through a laugh, but saved it by clamping her hand over her mouth and nose. One vibrating belch later, she returned the stein to my hand and resumed her role as my temporary bodyguard, stiffening her posture and grasping the handle of her axe.

At the far side opposite the main front room stood a table set up with a banquet of sorts, including a whole roast mountain goat, horned head still attached.

“Lovely,” I mumbled, not even audible to myself.

“Come,” Frea spoke in my ear before leading me by hand to the banquet table.

No plates. No forks. Feasters grabbed what they wanted and wiped their meat-greased hands on their clothing. Frea however, wearing armor, resorted to licking her hand clean, like a cat.

The music stopped. People cheered Jon’s and the others’ performance. Only a brief moment of silence spanned between the end of one song and the beginning of another. The melancholy tune of a flute carried over the crowd to my ears, and my attention perked with recognition. I had heard this tune before. A drum and lofty woman’s voice joined in, upping the tempo. It was only when the woman began to sing lyrics that I realized the singer was none other than Brelyna.

She was singing the song known as “The Dragonborn Comes,” an ancient tune that warriors who fought at Windhelm sang before charging the city. As the song went on, Frea glanced at me, clearly confused, no doubt wondering why there was a song written about me. Or, not me, but just The Dragonborn. I would have to explain it to her later.

I thought Brelyna would next break into ancient Norren to sing the next two verses as had the warriors at Windhelm, but she did not. Jon played through a vocal break, strumming his lute to the main tune of the song. When he was done, Brelyna continued to sing in modern Norren a verse I had not heard before.

“A battle, a battle brought on dragonwing.  
Not far, not far, the Dragonborn comes.”

Some members of the crowd joined in on the song. How many of them had heard this before?

“And all will be measured, both coward and king.  
I know, I know, the Dragonborn comes.”

Singers raised their drinks to me and stumbled through drunken bows. I stood stiff and awkward at Frea’s side, uncomfortable with the celebrants, given the circumstances. This was not meant to be a night to celebrate _me_.

 “Together through snowfall and sorrow we stride  
for now, for now the Dragonborn comes.”

The smoke or the noise or the drumming or the heat of the densely packed tavern was taking its toll. I waivered as a stabbing pain shot along a nerve at the back of my skull, running from neck to temple. Frea grabbed my hips, steadying my body.

“Until we next meet under Sovngarde skies,  
Hurrah, hurrah, the Dragonborn comes!”

Patrons cheered, jostled my shoulders, hugged my side, tousled my hair. Frea could only ward off so many at a time, and began to pull me by my forearm away from the swarm. The prickling like small jolts of electricity continued, and I pressed my hand to the side of my head. When I keeled forward, Frea grabbed my upper arms.

“I will take you home!” she cried into my ear. I could barely hear her.

“Deb!” came Brelyna’s voice. “Are you alright?”

The prickling widened and deepened. Every nerve in my brain sparked and fizzled as if long-dormant cells were roused and began communicating with one another. Warmth from Frea’s healing hand did nothing, only made my head feel larger, swollen, ready to burst.

“Stop!” I cried, pushing my arms out to my sides, gaining some sense of personal space.

Several ceramic objects fell and shattered, and the tavern quieted. Everyone stood around me, silent, still, and staring. Even Frea and Brelyna maintained a small distance.

The pain in my head continued, above my ears rounding to my forehead and round again down the center to the back of my skull until, abruptly, it stopped.

 _Dovahkiin_ , the voice said, as clear as if spoken into my ear.

I turned to Frea as if she had been the one to say it. But I knew she had not, not from where she stood. Nor did the voice have the qualities of hers, or of any human speech.

Whispers voiced en masse, drowning each other, unintelligible. I shrank into myself, cradling my head. Frea and Brelyna each wrapped an arm around me and walked me into darkness. A door closed behind us.

The spark of a Candlelight spell ignited. Brelyna crouched down and, hands placed on mine, met my gaze, worry set across her brow.

“What happened in there?” she asked.

My fingertips knotted into my hair, a somatic response attempting to dig in, to tear the voices out.

“He’s not here,” I said. “He’s not here. He’s gone, gone.”

“Who is gone?” asked Brelyna. “Stenvar? Yes, Deb. He’s gone.”

“Gone. Gone. Can’t bring me down. Down.” _Get them out, out out out!_

“What is she saying?” Frea asked.

“I don’t know. She’s had moments like this before. Well, not exactly like this, but she gets panic attacks.”

Frea crouched before me, next to Brelyna. “Panic... attacks?”

I slapped the right side of my head. Left. Right. Right, left.

“Hey, hey!” cried Brelyna, holding my face. “Stop that. What’s going on, Deb!?”

“They’re back!” I shouted at her, eyes flooded by welled tears. “They’re back and he’s not here!”

“I am here,” Frea crooned, holding my shoulders firmly. “I am here, Deborah. What is it that you need? Who is back?”

As I eyed Frea, blurry as my vision was, I witnessed the moment she understood. Her frown wrinkles deepened, and as Brelyna removed her hands from me, Frea quickly replaced them with her own.

“How many?” breathed the shaman. “How many of them are still with you?”

I waited for them to sound off. One, two...

My kneeling, quaking legs gave out, and I crumbled to the floor of the dark room. My head bumped lightly against the wall. Brelyna cast a second Candlelight spell.

“Four,” I said. “Mostly quiet. Been quiet for years. But, the song. The song I think, or the crowd. Just the excitement and the stress and—oh, I don’t know.”

I wiped my eyes and looked up to Brelyna, whose eyes were downcast. I reached out for her dangling hand and grasped it, needing her to know that I did not blame her.

“They are not a threat, these dragons,” I continued. “They don’t want to take over my body. But they never left. I don’t think they ever will. It’s fine, but, sometimes....” Frea sat down on the floor beside me. “Sometimes, when there were more in me, more dragon souls, I would... lose my mind. Not—not actually, but, my thoughts would take me in the clouds, and Stenvar... Stenvar would always bring me back down.”

Frea, in an unexpected gesture, leaned into me and kissed my forehead, lingering much longer than a kiss prescribed. She pressed her crown to mine.

“He was your roots,” she said softly. “I understand.”

Brelyna joined us on the floor just as Jenassa entered the room, prompting Frea to lean away from me. Jenassa nodded at us three, and without the hint of an emotion, exited the room, closing the door behind her. From behind the door I could hear her exclaim that all was well, and that I was simply momentarily overwhelmed with grief.

“Are you alright now?” Brelyna asked.

I smiled at my friend. “Yeah. I’m alright. I... still hear them. Feel them. They want things, sometimes. But right now it’s as if they simply want to fly. They’re excited, though I don’t know what about.”

“Maybe it truly was the song. I’m sorry. I thought it would be nice.”

“It was, Brey. It was. Don’t worry about it. You didn’t know. I didn’t know this could happen, still.” I stood, and the two women followed me to their feet. “I’ll be fine. Truly. I think I just... everything just came at me all at once. Stenvar is dead. My husband... is dead. And thinking about all the times he helped me through these instances...”

Frea squeezed my hand. I caught a smile from Brelyna.

“I have heard the stories,” said Frea. “One day you will have to tell me, in your words, all that happened after you left Solstheim. Did you truly take into you five thousand dragon souls?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, no, Frea. Nothing that high. Four hundred, I think it was.”

The shaman’s eyes widened at the truth, despite the smaller number.

“Come on,” I said, tugging at Frea. “Let’s go back, apologize to the others. We need to celebrate my husband, and all he did for the world.”

“Agreed,” said Brelyna. “And I think we should start by telling everyone what you just told us, how he helped you.”

I smiled at Brelyna, and opened the door to the smoky tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm back, and you have a very kind and generous reader to thank for it (you know who you are). I took a long and much-needed break. I honed my writing skills. I played with other fictional children and in other fictional universes. And now I'm here to kick dragonbutt.
> 
> This chapter was written not long ago, just needed some polishing. Nothing else is written after this but I intend to change that, starting... right now. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Exit, Pursued By A Werebear_


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning:** NSFW.

 

Quiet. Absolute quiet. Though in reality the Throat of the World was windswept and harrowing with the occasional wailing blizzard, the mountaintop in my mind was a desolate snowscape without any weather at all to disturb the senses. I could concentrate on the sky, on the earth below, or on myself, mind and body. Or, more comfortingly, I could let my mind fade into the emptiness and stare out at nothing at all, and simply be.

Now, in my mind’s eye, I saw the rockface that was the western slope of the mountain. Hostile. Unscalable. I wondered what it would feel like to jump from the height, to soar down towards the valley below, towards Whiterun.

The wind roared in my ears as I fell.

 

“Come back to me,” a voice purred into my ear.

I looked behind to see Frea’s smiling face and sparkling eyes. “How do you know,” I said, “when my mind leaves?”

“The air shifts around you. I can see the change.” Frea pulled me gently back and leaned around to kiss my lips. She took one of my hands from the window sill and held it tight. “Come back to bed.”

“I thought you had to leave at dawn.” I nodded to the slightly lighter sky.

Grinning, Frea answered, “It is not yet dawn.”

Every three of four months, weather depending, the Skaal migrated to the next season’s camp. Spring and first winter (as some in Skyrim called autumn), the Skaal occupied a village not far from Whiterun. During these seasons, and only these seasons, Frea made time to visit, and would usually bring Virald with her.

We weren’t together, Frea and I, not in the way I would have preferred. We kept things simple, open, and uncomplicated, but with no less love. For six years, it worked just fine. We were happy, both together and apart. Sex was had with others as occasion arose. Nothing serious, yet. Never serious...

Today, Frea and Virald would leave for the Skaal camp. But they would visit again one week from now; I was already anticipating their return.

“I will have you cry out to the sun as it rises,” said Frea, her words nearly a growl.

We didn’t make love often. Frea didn’t like to be touched in that way, below the waist. I had asked her if her asexuality was a product of sexual assault, as she had eventually confided in me that her daughter, Kria, was borne of a faceless man, one of the marauders that roam Solstheim and call themselves Reavers. But she said her preference was not a result of rape, that she was always this way. I admitted to her that it made me feel sad, and selfish, not to love her back in the same manner. She accepted my feelings, but reassured me that they were unnecessary. Through her esoteric shamanic powers, she felt all the pleasure she needed, and the proof was in the quivering that ran up and down her own body whenever I orgasmed from her touch.

“You know how I like to be quiet when family are near,” I said, grinning.

“Yes, I know.” Frea kissed the flesh of my hip, thigh, knee. “But I will make you cry for me, today.”

Frea’s hair, when not braided, was wildly and haphazardly curly. Big curls, small curls, curls that clumped in tresses and curls of single hairs. She shed a lot, too, and not just because of how hard I sometimes gripped her head.

“F-fuck,” I whispered as her tongue, strained to a point, teased softly, slowly. Agonizing. “I thought... you wanted...” I turned my gaze to the window. “The sun is rising.”

She slid fingers inside of me. Slow, shallow, smooth. Her tongue was too occupied for her to answer. Teasing, teasing, teasing. The late spring morning air was already warm. No fresh breeze swept in to cool me down, and a sheen of sweat dampened the bed linens. Completely unseasonable. We would have another hot summer in Whiterun Hold.

“At this rate,” I managed to say between ragged breaths, “we will be in bed until harvesttime.” I wasn’t exactly complaining.

In the end, I held off until long after our rooster crowed.

Frea tasted of me when we kissed.

“Maybe I will go north with you,” I said.

Frea smiled before kissing me again. “You cannot. Sara is much too young to manage the museum on her own. Though, the children could come with you.”

“Sara? Camping? That girl hates it more than I do.”

“She can sleep in the Hall then.”

I sighed, or whined, or voiced something in between. “Actually, I can’t go. I want to. I always want to. But we have so many visitors these days, and I have those donations...”

“I know, my love.” Frea kissed the tip of my nose. “I know.” She slid out of bed, her own body glistening with sweat, and she shifted over to the washbasin. Her buttocks swayed as she walked.

As she washed, I was completely mesmerized by the details: her hands as she rung out the cloth, its sodden _flop_ as the rag slapped against her inner thigh; the trickles of water unchecked, running down her leg and disappearing behind her knee; the puddles of water at her feet; the muscles of her abdomen dancing as she moved; the morning’s golden rays praising her pert nipples and the slope of her breasts.

When my gaze made the journey back upward, I caught Frea’s pleased, knowing smirk.

“You know I have to take the sight of you in, while I have you,” I said.

She grinned. “I know.”

. . . . . .

I didn’t want to be forty-nine years old. It seemed far too old. Forty-five was bad enough. I never thought it would happen, but I knew it the moment the sun rose on the twenty-eighth of Rain’s Hand in the two hundred and twenty-first year of the fourth era: I would be one of those women who celebrated her forty-ninth birthday as many times as she could convincingly do so.

As the years continued to pass full of normalcy (aside from the four dragons in my head occasionally reminding me that, yes, they were still there), I wondered when Elodie would come for me. She said I would know when that time was. I also waited for Alduin. Nahfahlaar and Therodyn, too, waited, on that mountaintop. He had a whole army of Tongues, now. Too young to be called Greybeards, I had joked in my last letter to him.

Orion, now seven-and-a-half years old, was helping Josse feed the chickens. I watched them from my bedroom window, leaning on the wide sill. Behind them, not far, stood the apple tree under which Stenvar was buried. I sent him my silent greeting.

I wondered what Virald was doing today. At nearly seventeen, he was legally a man. Among the Skaal, with whom he lived, Virald was already revered as the shaman’s apprentice. He was A Big Deal. He had married Kria, Frea’s daughter (seen by the tribe as a highly auspicious union), in a quick and simple ceremony last summer while they visited town. (They had actually married in the Skaal way before this, when the moon and stars aligned properly for them to do so). Kria was reportedly pregnant.

 _I am a forty-nine-year-old grandmother-to-be._ I groaned as my forehead sank into my awaiting palm.

“You would have loved it, wouldn’t you?” I said to Stenvar and to Yrsarald at the same time. “Can you imagine? Grandfathers?”

Images of men played through my memory. Yrsarald as he was with Flavia: tender, playful, doting, protective – and so very _large_ in comparison. Stenvar, as he was with Virald and our three children: the comforter, the rock and the guardian, the impish enabler. Yrsarald would have made the most amazing father, just as Stenvar had been.

It was hard to feel completely sad that Yrsarald never had that chance. If he had lived past that day, he’d likely still be alive now. He’d have lived to see his son grow up, become a father himself... But if Yrsarald had lived, I would have never given Stenvar the chance to give me our three beautiful children. Maybe he would have found someone else... 

I often wondered what Yrsarald would have thought about Virald being what he was. Likely, he would have been perfectly content, if not proud. The only thing Yrsarald ever wanted was to be simply human; Virald was, indeed, that. Just... enhanced. Superhuman, in a way, like Altanir.

“You would have been so proud, Yrsa...”

Stenvar had certainly been proud - of all my children. The proud adoptive father of a gifted ginger boy. The proud father of a future warrior, and a future scholar. The proud father of... well, whoever Orion would turn out to be. So far, aside from the brown hair, Orion was turning out to be a complete lookalike of Stenvar. He also sang, sometimes. Child songs and silly things. Maybe it was time to find him a little lute...

At fifteen, Vara and Sara were cemented in their vocations. Vara was inducted into the Companions. She was supposedly one of ‘the best they’d ever seen’ with the broadsword. Her father’s daughter, clearly. Sara was still actively involved in several activities. She hunted with Levandell frequently, and she tended our small garden. But more often than other things, Sara helped me around the museum. She was my apprentice.

And then there was Flavia, now eighteen. She had been officially betrothed to the younger Balki Balgruufsen and living at the palace for years, now. Not that Marcurio and Bird minded, as last year the court mage Farengar passed away and Marcurio was offered the position. The family of three all lived together at Dragonsreach, and Bird did odd jobs around the palace instead of around the city. The only downside to his was that I saw them far less often.

Later this year, in Last Seed when Balki would turn sixteen, the pair would be married. It was both a love match and a political one, people said. How Flavia marrying anyone was political I didn’t know, but I didn’t care to argue. It wasn’t any secret that I had given birth to the girl... woman. But I was far from a politician. Still, I had the feeling that Balgruuf and Elisif considered the children (and grandchildren) of The Dragonborn to be, somehow, important. Politically.

Today, on my first of many forty-ninth-year birthdays, Sara and Levandell were hunting in the western rolling hills, hoping to bag a deer, or even an elk. For me. For dinner. I couldn’t tell them that all I really wanted was a death-by-chocolate cake and maybe another five or fifty days with Frea. Or maybe a cake and to just be alone. Be alone...

While leaning on the sill, I imagined two ghosts standing guard behind me. I had to imagine their ghosts, or else I’d never see them. Yrsarald’s soul was elsewhere or nowhere or neverwhere, undone by the will of the universes, as he’d wanted. Stenvar’s soul was at rest in whatever heaven it was that suited him best. Neither of them opted to haunt me, able or not. So, I had to haunt myself.

 _Happy birthday, honeybee,_ rumbled Yrsarald from my left.

 _Hey, sweetheart_ , Stenvar chimed at my right, grinning wildly. _We've got a surprise for ya._

“Oh, yeah? What is it?” I asked in English. “Chocolate raspberry ganache? Strawberry shortcake? Carrot? Maybe German chocolate with those coconut and pecan bits? Oh, cheesecake,” I moaned and turned around to face the figments of my imagination. “For the love of all that’s holy, please tell me it’s cheesecake. With that chocolate swirl on top. Cherries...”

The two ghosts eyed each other, confused as ever.

“What?” I demanded.

They remained tight-lipped.

“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”

Smiling at me, they shook their heads, and then wisped away with a breeze.

. . . . . .

“Happy birthday, mama!” Orion said in when I finally descended into the kitchen. His bright and gleeful face lifted my mood seven thousand notches.

“Good morning, my love. And thank you.”

“We made porridge,” he announced.

“We?”

He grinned. I looked around to make sure there were no actual ghosts in the kitchen.

“He meant me,” Josse said, returning from outside. “Porridge, and eggs.” She lifted a basket to show off our chickens’ morning yield.

“Perfect,” I said, and embraced my baby boy.

 

No rest for the popular. Nor, apparently, for the mother of a seven-year-old and their enabling housecarl. While I entertained museum guests (with the help of Ash, thank the gods), Orion and Josse took it upon themselves to pull various harmless yet confusing pranks on the birthday girl.

First: A short, old man came into the museum wearing full Falmer armor, at first scaring the piss out of me (literally) and triggering an instinctual casting of Stoneflesh across my body. The man proceeded to walk the halls, admire skeletons and weapons, peruse the library. The not-Falmer then walked up to me as I lectured Hammerfellian visitors on our collection of Dwemer inventions. The not-Falmer took off his helmet, hooked it in his arm, and began to sing “Ragnar the Red” at full, outdoor concert volume. The museum patrons enjoyed the odd (though well-sung) performance and applauded as the man exited the building. As the not-Falmer strolled down my property’s walkway, I watched as Josse and Orion handed the man a small satchel. The pair noticed me and shrieked, then fled around the side of the house.

Second: Aela, Altanir’s some-time lover and Vara’s role model, showed up at the museum bloodied and battle-worn. When I saw her my gut reaction was to run to her and whip out a healing spell, but then the woman stepped into the library, pulled out a copy of _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ , then proceeded to _not_ read from the text but rather recited words in a rhythmic pattern. In English. “Thur wunce wuz a leezard frum Blahkmash,” she said, “hoo servt in thee hows of a lawd. Wyl hee prohmisst to ward ‘er, shee fillt up hiss larder, and luffinglee pahlisht hiz sawd.” Aela slipped the book back in its place, combed her fingers through her rat-nest hair, then left the library. In the shadows of the hallway, stood in a corner near the museum entrance, a flash of a grin and whites of eyes appeared only briefly before Ash disappeared in the crowd of patrons. Behind me, a tiny giggle sounded, and I turned just in time to see Orion and Josse scramble up the stairs.

I was beginning to catch on.

I’d heard a rumor once, long ago, that my birthday was also the day people tended to prank their friends and family for the sake of levity. By the time the third prank came around, I was ready. Fool me once... something, something.

Third: Sara burst into the museum shouting for me. She found me readily. Her hunting dress (a form-fit brown thing with leather reinforcements) was slick with the same blood (snowberry syrup, probably) that stained her face. By the hand she led me running out of the museum and on to our front property where Levandell lay. Two boys their age, Sighulf and another unknown to me, knelt at Levandell’s sides. Sighulf had his hands pressed to Levandell’s left upper thigh and groin area.

Then I realized Levandell’s golden-brown skin was looking decidedly more drab than it should be.

Then I realized this wasn’t a prank.

“Back! Back!” I shouted to the boys. As soon as the teen to Levandell’s left took his hands off the boy’s thigh, blood – not snowberry juice – squirted up and onto his clothing. I shirked the panic setting into my throat and pressed my hands to his thigh. The healing magic swirled from my palms to his thigh and around his pale, still body.

Levandell was unconscious.

“Is he breathing!?” I shouted.

The children stared down at me, silent. A crowd had begun to form around us.

“Check!” I screamed at Sara. “Feel his chest and mouth!”

My daughter did as I ordered. After a moment, she looked up at me and nodded, and the weight of an entire galaxy lifted from my shoulders. My hands remained on the boy’s thigh, praying to all that was good in the world that the magic would know what to do, would repair his femoral artery and anything else that was damaged.

“What happened?” I asked, calmer.

“We... were hunting,” Sighulf said in a quiet voice.

“I know you were hunting, Sighi,” I grumbled. “What _happened_?”

“Sabre cat,” said Sara. “It was a sabre cat. She must have been in the grass. We didn’t see it.”

“Are there any other wounds?” I asked. “Are you injured!?”

“No, mama. No. Just Levan.”

“Go get one of my healing potions,” I told her.

“I already gave him some of mine,” she said, holding up a tiny red glass vial.

“How much?”

“A sip.”

I nodded down to the unconscious boy. “All of it. Go on.”

Sara did as she was told.

As if reading my mind, Josse pulled up to us in a horse cart, Apple at its front. “We will take him to the temple,” she said as she jumped off the cart and approached us.

While I pressed my palms to his wound and continued to heal him, the others quickly forged a makeshift stretcher out of cloths and branches. When the time came to lift Levandell onto the stretcher, I was reluctant to remove my hands. But, fortunately, when I did, there was no longer a fountain of blood. His wound was still deep and worrisome, though. He needed true healers, and the rest of his body needed to be examined.

“Quickly, now,” I said to Josse, who set Apple into a trot as soon as Sighulf and the other boy were settled into the cart. I held Sara back, with me.

“Where did this happen?” I asked her. “How did you get him here?”

“Just there,” she said, pointing west-ish. “We had to leave the buck and carry him.”

“Buck?” It took me a moment to process. “It happened on the way home?”

She nodded.

Frowning, I pulled Sara close to me. She was already in my arms when I remembered she was covered in Levandell’s blood. I cared for exactly two seconds.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” I breathed. Sara said nothing. “I suppose it’s hard to know when a sabre cat would be out there. She was probably stalking you, maybe even while you took down the buck.”

“You would have sensed it,” she murmured.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve been taken by surprise before.”

“When?”

My reaction was to smile, gently, though nobody saw it. It was either smile, or tense up and let myself fall into a pit of anxiety. “Oh,” I said, “years ago. Don’t you worry about that.”

I peeled myself away from my daughter and took a good look at her. Now we both looked like we had been to war – awoken eyes, blood-smear warpaint.

“Why don’t we take the other cart and go fetch that elk, hmm?”

Sara smiled, and nodded.

“And then,” I said, “after we get cleaned up, we need to go tell Levandell’s mother that he’s at the temple.”

“Oh. Yeah... I guess Sighi could have gone. He knows the way.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s good that Levan will have friends with him.”

“I could have stayed with him...”

I squeezed her hand. “I’m selfish, I admit. I kept you here. And Sighi will probably want to go home to Eyleif, anyway. Who was the other boy? I didn’t recognize him.”

Sara was quiet until she kicked the grass and said, “Sighi’s companion.”

Companion. By Sara’s reaction, this translated into paramour, which, apparently, Sara was unhappy about. I chose not to say anything more on the matter, and instead hoped she would let herself have feelings for someone else.


	13. Chapter 13

It was one of those days where I missed Virald terribly. Missed him as he was now, missed him as an infant. Though I didn’t miss his screaming, infantile cries, of course. I had my hands full with eight-year-old Orion, with a pair of teenage girls, and a wedding to come later in the year. I had my hands full with the museum, as well, and the household in general. But Virald I hadn’t seen in months. A letter, however, reported that he and Kria and their unborn child were all doing well.

Museum traffic was slow in the spring. Too much going on with farming and husbandry, I supposed. Today I spent my time sorting through the last of the mysterious anonymously-donated crates. Inside was no less than a million objects, or so it seemed. Small things, mainly. Jewels, gems, coins. Expensive things. I had held off on doing anything with the contents, keeping the crate as it was, resealed after a primary inspection. Today I planned to inventory it all, and have a serious discussion with interested parties on whether or not the items were museum-worthy or if I should consider selling them to Whiterun’s elite. For the good of the museum, of course.

I had to keep busy. If I didn’t, I would think more about how much I missed Virald, and would be overly tempted to leave for the Skaal village. I knew that I just had to wait, that Frea and Virald would visit, sooner or later.

The sun was about halfway towards its zenith when a knock sounded at the storeroom doorway. I turned to find Ash, bearded again, but in a far less haggard way than he was when I first met him.

“There’s a man at the museum entrance, asking to see you,” he said in English.

“What about?” I asked as I continued a quick tally of the crate’s contents.

“Dunno. But he asked for you by name.”

“Does he look dangerous?” I looked to Ash, who shrugged.

“My spidey-sense isn’t tinglin’, so I guess not.”

“Ha.”

“What about yours?”

“No spidey-sense here. Dragons, however...” I set down my custom portable desk (thin, polished wood with an indentation for an inkpot and ridge for a book to sit against) and walked towards the doorway. I made a quick assessment of the figure shining red a few rooms away, and chuckled. “Nah,” I said. “No tingling.”

“I’ll come with you, just in case.”

“You’re not usually so paranoid,” I said as we walked, unconcerned that anyone would understand our conversation.

“Yeah, well, he looks like he wants somethin’. Or wants to sell somethin’. Like a used car salesman. You know the type.”

“Is he carrying a briefcase?”

“Nah, nothin’.”

“Weapon?”

“No.”

I smiled at the younger man. “I’m sure we’ll be okay, then. But, just in case, keep your fireballs on call.”

“Yes ma’am.”

I patted Ash on the upper arm and into the museum foyer we walked. There was no one there. I turned to Ash confused, but felt something, a presence—it could have been a mouse for all I could tell in half a heartbeat—in the room with Numinex’s skull and other skeletons, and sure enough there stood a man, posed like a standing Thinker, assessing the articulated troll skeleton.

The man was dressed rather well, leather trousers and a tunic that appeared to have woven embellishments. Newer clothes that did not see much toil, but boots fit for a long journey. A shaft of light shining in from the eastern windows set his long, auburn braid aglow. It looked as though a gold clasp held the hair together at the end of the braid which nearly reached his rather flat derriere.

He was lean. Not Bird-level lean, but toned. Lithe. He had broad shoulders and slightly rounded thighs. He was tall, about the height of Bird, slightly taller than myself.

From what I could see his skin was bronze. Not as an undertone or tanned, but his actual skin hue resembled that of bronze, minus the shine. A bronze hand—decked with a gold bangle—reached up to push back loosed auburn tresses, exposing an ear elongated to a point. Less than that of an elf, but more, say, than those of Levandell, whose ears only bore the suggestion of a point.

I cleared my throat, and the man, unstartled, turned toward me and Ash. The sun shaft briefly illuminated his chestnut eyes and he reeled and squinted, and stepped forward out of the assault of light. There was no mistaking that this man had elven heritage—Bosmer, if I had to guess—but his eyes resembled that of a human. Smaller, and with a white sclera.

He wasn’t entirely unpleasant-looking.

“Hello,” I heard myself saying after what might have been ten minutes of staring for all I could tell. “Can I help you?”

From upstairs, Morgana called to Ash. He gave my arm a quick squeeze before trotting to his beckoning wife.

The man, who looked to be no older than thirty years, flicked his eyes over my person before asking, “Are you Deborah Red?”

I stifled a chuckle. “It’s just Deborah. Deb, if you like. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I, eh...” He stepped towards me slowly and wiped his palms down his tunic. “I wanted to come and thank you, myself, for what you did for Levandell. Nadira told me where you lived. I’m—apologies, I’m Erandell, Levan’s father.”

The man stepped close and held out his arm in standard Skyrim greeting, and I grasped his forearm in suit.

Erandell had flecks of gold in his chestnut eyes, and faint freckles across his face.

“Oh, I—” I cleared my throat. “Right. I remember now. Levan has mentioned you. But he’d said you were gone, far away.”

Erandell nodded before we broke our forearm grasp and took a step back, each. “I had gone to Valenwood for a while, yes. But war’s broken out there and, for a change, it’s safer up here. Not many Altmer are willing to cross the Jeralls, these days.”

I stared at the man, dumbfounded. “War? I’m... Valenwood is in the south,” I said to myself. “The Altmer have started a war in the south?”

He waved a hand between us. “There’s always a war, somewhere. Mostly it’s these Thalmor that are the problem.”

“Yes. I’m familiar.”

Erandell offered me a half smile. “So,” he said, “as I was saying, thank you. Levan is my youngest boy. He means a lot to me, despite not spending much time with him, over the years.” He frowned, briefly. “The priestesses said if it weren’t for your healing, Levan may not have survived. He was very pale when he arrived at the temple, they said.”

“Is he still there? At the temple?”

“Last I knew, yes, to watch for infection. But he’s fine.”

I sighed with relief. “I’m so glad to hear it. I hadn’t heard anything the last two days. I know Sara wanted to check on him...” I bit my lip. “Levan is like a son to me, honestly. He’s been friends with my children since they were little.”

“So Nadira tells me.”

He smiled, and I had no idea what else to say, so I asked, “When did you arrive in Skyrim? Did you cross Cyrodiil?”

“Gods, no. I docked at Windhelm about a week ago. Dreadfully long journey, but I had a nice enough cabin.”

 _I’ll bet_. By the look of him, he could afford a very nice cabin, indeed.

“Nadira didn’t speak of you,” I said. “I mentioned you to her once after Levan talked about you. She, eh...” I smiled as politely as I could. “She changed the subject rather quickly.”

Erandell lowered his gaze and rubbed his knuckles back and forth across his strong, goateed chin. “Nadira and I were never truly... you know. Together. We were together enough to make a son. That’s about it.”

I nodded, unsure what to say in what turned into a rather awkward conversation.

“Was the war in Valenwood that bad that you had to leave?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It was bad enough. Good for money—I’m a fletcher, mainly. Realized I had a skill for it decades ago and kept at it. Good money for it in wartime, especially among Bosmer. But I’ve no taste for war, being honest. Once I received word that my mother had died, I decided it was just as well that I leave for Skyrim.”

“And that brought you here?”

“Hmm.” Erandell’s thumbs found purchase on his belt. “My parents owned an estate not far from the city, west. Past the groves, not far off the main road.”

“Wintersand Manor?”

Erandell’s eyes went wide. “You know of it?”

“I’ve passed by it enough times. It’s a big house. Big property.”

“Yes. Well... my mother had designs for the future, it seems. After my father died some ten years ago, she began to completely dissolve their estate—clearing out its contents, and such—in preparation to donate it to the Temple of Kynareth.”

“The temple? But it’s not in the city.”

“Right. They intended to turn it into a place for the dying, to keep them away from the less dire patients.”

“Oh.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

Erandell turned to take in the room, and then stepped casually further into the museum. I followed. Josse stepped quietly to my side, giving me her silent ‘Is everything alright, here?’ look. It was, and she let us be.

The man stopped in the room with the wall-hung map of Skyrim, where other historic Skyrim-themed objects sat in glass cases or on pedestals.

“Now,” he continued, “now I see where my mother sent their collection.”

The dry air of the museum hit my widened eyes. “Um. What?”

Erandell turned to me, expressionless. “I saw the list, what she put into crates. She kept it in a ledger, as my father had when the objects were acquired.”

 _Deaccessions,_ I thought. “Your mother was my anonymous donor?”

“Anonymous?”

I motioned for Erandell to follow, and led him to the storeroom in which sat the final, full cate. Immediately he bent forward and picked up a silver bowl. He laughed, and shook his head.

“There were no notes,” I said. “No names. No letter saying ‘Hey there, just so you know, we’re going to be giving you a house’s worth of artifacts. Have fun.’ Nothing.” My hands had found their way to my hips. “Why would she do that? Why not just come and talk to me?”

He put the bowl back in the crate and examined what looked to be an old, tarnished diadem.

“I don’t know,” he said. “They were private people, my parents. Perhaps she was worried if she told you, or anyone, where the items came from, that someone might come to the manor, steal the items within.”

“I... suppose that makes sense. I often worry about the same happening here. It’s why my husband suggested we install iron bars on the lower-level windows.”

Erandell turned to inspect a large window. The iron bars were rather intricate designs, deeply set into the house structure. A solid defense against break-ins.

The man turned back to me. He was smiling a very pleasant soft smile. “I find it an amusing coincidence,” he said, putting the diadem down and stepping towards me. “Don’t you? If my son were not friends with your children... Had you not been a mage... Had you been anything other than an antiques dealer...”

“Museum owner,” I corrected. He flashed a toothy smile. His teeth were surprisingly white. “You’re saying that you’re amused that these things brought you here?”

His head bobbed up and down, slowly. “Something like that.”

Our gazes held for a considerable length of time before I broke away and walked out of the storeroom and to my desk where I kept my own ledger, my list of accessions. I had no idea what further to say to the man, particularly in response to his current line of thought.

“If you want,” I said eventually, “we can put up a plaque somewhere, your parents names on it. Something to show our gratitude. Or,” I said, looking up at him again, “you can have it all back. I don’t mind. Honest. We have so many things—”

“Actually,” he said, grinning, “I had something else in mind.” Arms still crossing his torso, he strutted toward the window by my desk and looked out, toward the south, toward the main road running across Whiterun Hold. “I plan to remain here in Skyrim for some time,” he continued. “You should come by the manor, see for yourself all the items my mother never got a chance to send you. And then, perhaps,” he said, smiling broadly, “we can talk business.”

 

I agreed to Erandell’s suggestion, that I come by his parent’s estate. I didn’t know when I would go, nor did I know if I would go alone or not. I considered taking Josse. I also considered contacting Altanir, a businessman who looked like a bodyguard. Tall. Strong. Tattooed face. No one would mess with me with him standing guard. Then again, Josse was just as intimidating. I preferred she stay home with Orion, though. She seemed to enjoy his company, well enough.

As I sat in my room, brushing my hair, I heard a giggle sound from the open doorway. I turned to find Sara, red-faced and smiling.

“What’s so funny?” I asked her.

She giggled some more. “He was looking at you.”

“What? Who was looking at me?”

“Levan’s father.” Sara tapped her temple several times, indicating that she was calling me dense. It was Skyrim’s version of ‘duh’.

“Well, of course he was looking at me,” I said.

“No, Mama. He was _looking_. When you weren’t looking he was looking _at your butt_.”

I snorted. “Well, it is a sizable butt.”

“ _Mom_.”

“What? And what were you doing, spying on your mother?"

Sara widened her eyes at me. “Mommm.”

“Saraaa.”

The girl rolled her eyes and left the doorway, shuffling her way to her room, and I recommenced brushing my hair.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: “Halo” cover by Ane Brun

Altanir was out of town and because I wanted to visit Erandell’s family estate sooner rather than later, in the end it was Sara and Levandell who accompanied me, Apple pulling our cart. The journey there took no time at all, really, and we arrived in the mid-morning just as the clouds parted and let the sun warm the spring air.

The property was vast, set back several dozen paces from the main road and delineated by a short cobblestone wall. To the west of the house stood ten dead and dying orchard trees, dead leaves and other debris nesting on the ground around them. To the east of the house was what looked to be a simple stable, and I steered Apple towards it.

By the time the children and I approached the front of the house, Erandell was already on the front steps, arms crossed and smiling.

The boy and his father were a bit awkward at first, greeting each other as friends rather than family, but eventually the ice between them thawed and Erandell was giving his son (and by extension Sara and I) a tour of the manor, which seemed bigger on the inside, somehow. Many of the rooms had been cleared out, but many more yet remained filled with furniture and antique whatnots, and mannequins donned with armor. This entire home could have easily been transformed into a museum. It was, without any need for structural additions, bigger than my home and museum combined. I felt a bit sheepish, but I reminded myself that neither I nor Stenvar (or, apparently, Balgruuf) had had any idea that this estate was, at one time, filled with museum-quality items.

We were upstairs, on the third story, when I turned from the landing into a room and was immediately confronted by an angry, snarling werebear.

“Woah!” Levandell cried as I reeled back, practically leaping into my teenage daughter’s arms. She, with Erandell’s help, were able to prevent me from face-planting onto the wooden floor. I turned again to the werebear and, relieved, exhaled my terror and closed my eyes.

“Why,” I began, half breathless, “is there a mounted werebear in your parents’ home, Erandell?”

My children knew. Levandell likely knew, too, as Yrsarald’s ‘condition’ was no secret in my household.  But Erandell likely didn’t know. Could he have? There were rumors, and there was the truth. Where was he when Yrsarald died, when the sky went dark? If Erandell knew, and he could have, would he have then planted this monstrosity here for me to find? Was he that type of person?

Thin fingers gave my shoulder a firm squeeze, with a slight caress, I thought, upon lift-off. I opened my eyes to watch Erandell walk in front of me and approach the taxidermized beast. Hands on hips, he studied it, gave its vicious teeth a poke, brushed dust off its unkempt brown fur. I thought, perhaps, the taxidermist had given it glass eyes, gold inlay for the iris.

I wondered who this person was, and if they were related to Yrsarald.

My stomach did somersaults.

“I have no idea,” Erandell said. “I wouldn’t think a thing like this is worth much. And aren’t werebeasts, well, people?” He turned to me, a curious and perhaps concerned look on his face. “By the look of this thing, this was a woman.” He shook his head and ushered us out of the room, closing the door behind us.

“I apologize,” he said. “I hadn’t been in this room yet. I’ve been spending most of my time in the cellar where most the items worth selling are kept.”

“It’s fine,” I lied as I waited for my heartbeat to slow.

“Are you alright, Mama?” asked Sara.

“Yes, darling. I’m fine.”

“Does it look like him?” asked Levandell.

A sudden excess of saliva filled my mouth as my gut muscles clenched.

“No,” I said, half-lying. “This one is a woman. Was.”

“But, did he look like that?” he pressed.

I sat on a bench in the middle of the hallway, a padded thing that created billows of dust when my rear met the cushion.

“Yes,” I finally admitted. “He looked a bit like that. Taller.”

The look on Erandell’s face was one of pure dread.

 

Downstairs, the kitchen was one of the few rooms left intact, fully furnished, stocked. Levandell and Sara got the hearth fire going while Erandell cooked up a modest lunch for us all. While the food cooked over the fire, he poured us adults a generous glass of dark red wine. Even from the smell, I could tell that it was spiced wine.

“Imported from Solitude,” he said as he recorked the bottle. “I thought, perhaps, you could use a drink.” The man looked nothing short of penitent.

It was just a coincidence, the werebear. Just as it was a coincidence that he apologized with spiced wine, my favorite, which I hadn’t had a taste of in years. Just a coincidence. It had to be.

After lunch, Sara and Levandell took it upon themselves to dispose of the stuffed werebear, which was not that heavy, according to them. They used the horse cart to move it far afield, and with shovels found in the property’s storeroom, gave the werebear a burial. I told them not to tell me where.

“I didn’t think the tales were true,” Erandell said to me while looking at his wine glass.

“Ah, so you do know,” I replied.

“I do. Or, I thought I did. There are a lot of stories about you. I think my mother was an admirer.”

“Admirer of...?”

“You, naturally.”

I scoffed. “Me. An admirer of me? _Okay_...” I said, slipping into English, clearly edging on tipsy.

“Is it so unbelievable? For a woman to look up to another, powerful woman?”

“Well, no. Of course not. I just...” I rolled my shoulders, suddenly tense. “I suppose I never thought about it like that, before. That I might have... ‘admirers’.”

Fans. I had _fans_. At least one. Gods help me. Gods help _them_.

Erandell refilled my wine glass. As if I needed more. I definitely wanted more, though.

“Is this wine your parents’, too?” I asked.

He nodded, then drank deeply from his glass, then stood from the table. “I’ve yet to show you the cellar,” he said. “Feel free to bring your glass. I can guarantee no mounted creatures down there to startle you. Only jewelry and buckets of gold.” He stifled a chuckle.

And he wasn’t joking. There were quite literally buckets—and crates, chests, baskets—of gold, things made of gold, silver things, bronze things, jeweled things and gemstones I didn’t recognize but were clearly prized.

“So what your mother sent me, the final crate, was just a taste,” I noted.

“She left no note or journal of any kind, that I’ve found. No indication of intent. Either she had sent you all she had meant to, or she was preparing to send you the lot.”

“It’s too much,” I breathed, shaking my head and letting my hand dive into a pool of gemstones, ice to the touch. “I never would have been able to process all of this.”

“Hmph. Maybe not _never_. Maybe, just, given enough time...”

An orchestra of _gongs, clangs_ and _tings_ echoed around the chilly cellar as Erandell busied himself with other objects in the room. I couldn’t tell if he was actually assessing or just keeping his hands busy. His slender hands, and long, knotty fingers. I drifted closer to him, half-inspecting the treasures—what looked to be a scepter, gold nuggets and silver nuggets and even a bucket of glassy ore, and a gold-plated human skull of all things. When close behind Erandell I realized his hands were not the hands of a twenty- or thirty-something. Unless this was typical of fletchers, to have aged hands (and maybe it was), those were the hands of an older person. My age, at least.

Erandell smelled like leather and flowers.

“You wanted to talk business,” I said, more loud than necessary.

“Hmm? Yes.” He set down the copper ingot he was ‘inspecting’ and turned fully to me. “I’ve seen your museum, seen how full it is. If you wanted more on display, visitors may have trouble walking through comfortably. If you’d allow it, I would like to fund the construction of another addition, if you have the land for it, and I think you do. An addition, or two, or... a second building. Whatever you think is best.”

With narrowed eyes I studied the man, whose expression showed nothing but earnestness. “And why would you do that? You have the funds for such an expense?”

“I do,” he said with a nod. “And I would, because I believe it’s what my mother would have wanted. And... I don’t have to _donate_ this house to the temple. I could easily sell it. Nazeem—maybe you know him; dark fellow, husband of an employee of my aunt; Nadira’s brother—he seemed eager to buy the property. Gods know why. I told him of Danica’s wishes for this place, a home for the ill, and he agreed to fulfill those wishes...” He looked away, the cogs in his brain cogging.

“But you wonder of his sincerity?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, adding a smirk.

“You think he instead wants to live here?”

“I don’t know what he wants. Or, what he truly wants, as opposed to what he says he wants.” He shook his head and waved his hand back and forth. “Regardless, yes I can pay for an addition to your museum. In fact I would love to do it. All my wealth, you see—mine, not that of my parents—it comes from war. It’s almost like blood money, you know? Using it for something good, it makes the guilt a little less heavy.”

“But you could do anything else. Donate anywhere else, starting with this house, to the temple. Donate money to the healers.”

“I’m already... My parents, and now me, we’ve already helped the temple. Helped my aunt, her employees.”

“Your aunt? Who’s your aunt?”

“Danica.”

“Danica Pure-Spring?” I asked. He nodded, and then the cogs in _my_ brain started rolling. “So,” I began, “your, one of your parents is related...?”

“My father. Ernar.”

“Oh. Hmm. Danica never mentioned family.”

Erandell smiled, broad and bright, the lines of his auburn goatee stretching. His teeth were so clean they lit up the room like a Magelight spell (almost). “Yeah,” he said. “Aunt Dani is all business.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose so. And your mother? What was her name?”

“Della,” he said, continuing his glorious smile.

Brain cogs, brain cogs. “Ernar and Della.”

Smile, smile. “They were creative, naming their children.”

“So you have siblings?”

No more smile. Erandell bowed his head, nodded twice, but then shook his head. “Had.” He looked up, head still bowed, big chestnut puppy-eyes.

I swallowed my smile. “Sorry.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “It was ages ago. That they died, I mean. The Great War. The Civil War. Other wars, before, elsewhere.”

“But, Great War? That was... fifty years ago.”

“Something like that.”

“But you’re so... Are you the baby? Of the family, I mean.”

“Oh, not at all. The middle of five, actually.”

“Five...” My gut wrenched. “You lost four siblings to wars?”

“Yep.”

“ _Jesus_.”

“What?”

“Uh, nothing. I mean... Sorry. That’s awful.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

He smirked. I expected him to tell me not to apologize or the like, but he just turned away and headed for the cellar stairs. I followed.

Erandell made straight for the kitchen, straight for the wine. He filled his glass, then topped up mine. He walked through the house, to the back door, and out. There was a wooden deck of sorts. It had seen better days, some of it rotting. He gazed out north as he sipped his fragrant, imported wine.

The day was brighter than ever. Cloudless, now. A butterfly, blue and black, fluttered by.

What looked to be a horse-pulled cart—a grey-cream horse in front, Apple for sure—was closing in to the property from the northwest. One light-skinned person, one dark.

“She looks like you,” Erandell said, gaze still set north. I figured he meant Sara.

“It’s funny,” I said. “When she was little, I would have agreed. Now, all I see is her father.”

“Levan tells me her father is with Dibella, now.”

And then, for the first time in a long time, that thought made me smile. Stenvar was, I knew, with his goddess. I knew he was at peace, diving into a sea of flowers, of mead, of bare-breasted women.

Something like that.

“Sometimes,” I began, “it feels like just yesterday that Stenvar died. Other times, that just yesterday I was with Yrsarald, planning to be married. Their children keep them alive, I think. Their memory, I mean. Or, more than that... a piece of them, in my mind, my imagination.” I sipped deeply from my glass. “I suppose it’s just a measure to prevent myself from becoming too lonely.”

“You’re never all that lonely, I imagine.”

I side-eyed the man beside me, waiting for a second part of that sentence that never arrived.

“There are times when I am, and times when I am not,” was the response I offered.

Erandell’s gaze was solidly fixed to me, to mine, unbreaking even when he sipped his wine.

Hoofbeats and the brushing sound of cartwheels on grass crescendoed, and Apple drove our children to the side of the house, to the stable. Their arrival offered the distraction I needed, an excuse to look away from Erandell.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Here I am, pouring out my feelings of men passed to a man I just met.”

He was quiet. Then, “Don’t apologize for your grief. You need to let it out, make it known. I've lived long enough to experience many losses. It begins to take its toll, in the end, if you let it.”

I looked at him, watched him empty his glass.

“How old are you?” I said, not considering that such a question might be rude. “You look so young, to me.”

Erandell stood tall, puffing out his chest, I thought, just a little. “I just turned eighty-seven.”

I nearly dropped my wine glass. “I, wow. Right. Wow. Your father, he lived long?”

“Long for a Nord, yes.”

“So Danica must be...”

He smirked. “Old. Younger than my father, but...” He shrugged. “Mages, you know?”

I smiled. “Which means, your mother...?”

“Bosmer. She was wealthy, and with a sister-in-law who practiced the healing arts, she lived much, much longer than her people might in, say, war-torn Valenwood.”

“Which makes you... what, middle-aged?”

He chuckled. “Something like that.”

“Wow.”

He was laughing, now, leaning sideways by his elbow against the banister, his long braid hanging down over the edge. “Is it truly so extraordinary? You act like you have no elven friends.”

“Oh, I do. I have. Dunmer, mostly. But I don’t really... I don’t think I know exactly how old they are. Or I’ve forgotten. I’m sorry, it seems rude to—”

“It’s fine. You’re fine.” His hand floated onto mine. “Relax.”

“ _Okay_ ,” I said.

“Oh-what?”

“What?”

“Hey, Mama,” said Sara, trotting up to us, Levandell trailing. “It’s done. We said a few words, even. A proper burial, as proper as it can be, without a priest.”

I smoothed my palm over my daughter’s slightly disheveled and wind-swept hair. “Thank you, my darling.”

“So,” Erandell said, standing up pin-straight. “Levan. Sara. I was wondering...” He pressed his thumb to his chin. Tap, tap. “Would you two be interested in making a little bit of money, helping me sort through all these things? I would ask this fine woman, here—” he grinned at me “—but she has a museum to run.”

Sara turned to me, wide-eyed with hope. Of course she would be interested; I didn’t pay her for her work at the museum. I couldn’t help but smile. She grinned wide in return.

. . . . . .

Wintersand Hall was connected to the main museum by two closed walkways, creating an open-air courtyard in the middle. The courtyard was not yet finished, but when it was, there would be arrangements of beautiful (and useful) flowering plants and trees within. The medicinal plant byproducts would be donated to the Temple of Kynareth. The edible fruit we would alternatively keep for ourselves and give to the city for redistribution to the poor.

I had to obtain written permission from the city steward to build more on the land, complete with a written proposal signed by myself and my benefactor, Erandell. Permission was given easily. Balgruuf (and his son, Balki) seemed overly eager at the idea that even more treasures will be displayed in Whiterun’s ‘famous’ museum.

Perhaps ‘fame’ was a relative concept.

Today was the official last day of construction on the hall. The laborers were paid their last wage, and any papers they needed signed were handled by Bird, who had taken it upon himself to oversee them over these last few months (claiming boredom at the palace). In the meantime, Erandell asked me to follow him back to the house, to the kitchen, where apparently he had snuck in a crate of that same imported spiced wine. He held his impish smile as he opened a bottle and filled to the brim two cups.

In a wordless toast, we clinked our cups and drank thirstily.

“We make a good team,” he said, eyes sparkling and bronze cheeks turning pink-orange.

“We two and Bird and the builders and the architects, sure,” I corrected with a wink.

He chuckled, nodded, and swigged more wine. “The plaque should be ready soon,” he said. “I like the stonesmith who makes them. Garris? Nice fellow.”

“I told you. He does good work. Plaques, sculptures...” I cleared my throat. “Whatever you need made out of stone, he’ll do it, and do it well. Shame he’s getting a bit old. He doesn’t have an apprentice, I don’t think.”

Erandell sounded a thoughtful sound, drank more wine. He wasn’t looking at me—just the wine. Staring into it, pondering its tint, perhaps. Maybe there was something off about it, to his taste. His thumbs made little arcs, smoothing up and down the cow-horn cup.

He looked almost sad. Bad vintage, perhaps.

“I should go,” he said. He finished the wine in one gulp and set the cup onto the table and made his way to the museum entrance. “More things to do at the manor. Cleaning. More paperwork. Always paperwork.”

Just then, thunder sounded. A peak outside confirmed the darkening sky.

“Now?” I said. “I mean, do you have to rush off? You could stay for dinner.” I looked outside again. “If you leave now you might get caught in whatever weather is coming.”

Erandell just smiled. “Thankfully, I am not made out of taffy.” He reached for his lightweight hooded cloak and draped it around his shoulders. Then he stood still, looking at me.

“Today was a good day,” he said, for some reason. “These months...” He smirked. “Good months.”

I returned his expression. “They were.”

“I’ll be around,” he said. “I plan to stay in the area. May leave for Solitude now and again but, I have a place with my cousin in the city, for now. And, of course, I can’t miss the wedding.”

I groaned. “Don’t remind me. My firstborn, married soon. It doesn’t exactly make me feel young.”

Erandell chuckled. “You’re young, you’re young.”

I walked him to his horse, a pretty black mare. He pulled himself up onto the saddle like his body weighed nothing; perhaps his thighs were just that strong. He heeled the horse’s flanks and then she was off, at a walk, taking Erandell away, onto the road. He turned, maintaining a soft, friendly smile. He finally looked away when his neck forced him to.

A chilly wind picked up. I returned to my home, inside the museum entrance, and closed the door, locked it. I turned and lay against the wood, letting it support my weight, all of it, what felt heavier than normal, the iron in my blood turned to lead.

Perhaps I was just drunk. Perhaps I was tired.

Perhaps...

I looked to my left, towards the boulder-sized skull of Numinex, to the room full of dead, defleshed beings. I waited for the dragons within me to say something. Anything. To cause me to crave mammoth or to fly, to breathe fire, to speak their tongue.

The children were out and about with Josse. Frea and Virald were with the Skaal. Morgana and Ash were somewhere that was not here. The dragons were sleeping, and the skeletons (thankfully) were still.

The house and the museum, filled with the last of Erandell’s crates, were fuller than they’d ever been. And I, plumbous and vinous, felt miserably hollow.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  

The skies opened up. Seated at my desk, a single candle glowing, I gazed out the large window, mind blank, simply watching. The rain came down in sheets. Lightning flicked down to the southern hills. Thunder rumbled, three Mississippis away.

No one was home, yet. Though it was only mid afternoon, the museum was closed today. We did that sometimes, a break for all involved. That said, if someone actually came knocking, unable to return the following day, we indulged them a visit, if able. On a day like today, I expected no one.

I tore my gaze from the storm and it fell to my book. My story. My life. I was writing about the darkened skies, the red-haloed sun, and Serana, still considered missing by Altanir. Still presumed, by me, to be ash, scattered to the winds. I wrote about her by name in the book. If she was still alive I figured that, one day, maybe she’d read it and smirk, knowing she’d fooled us all.

I had been trying to write about this part of my life for five and a half months, give or take. Though after the year and a half it took me to muster the will to write about Yrsarald’s death, this was still a minor block.

A pounding at the museum door startled me. Ink from the quill tip splashed everywhere—book, desktop, dress, hair and skin.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

More pounding, slower this time but no less insistent. I figured if they were in such a damn hurry, they can be greeted by ink-splotched me. _Maybe the downpour can wash the ink..._

It was probably just one of my kids, caught in the rain. I let my dragon sense go to work as I walked, checking friend or foe; it was an absent-minded reflex, most of the time.

Friend, singular, mortal-elf.

I stop in my tracks, halfway to the door. _Elf?_

I grabbed at my dress skirt, nervous, remembering the ink on my hands much too late.

Yep. Finger marks. “Shit-fuck!” I hissed.

_Pound, pound, pound._ “Deborah!” came Erandell’s heightened voice. “Are you there?”

I slid open the peephole.

Big red-brown eyes met mine, then crinkled with an unseen smile.

I unlocked and opened the door quickly, practically pulling the man inside, out of the rain. He was positively dripping, and half-covered in mud.

“What's happened?” I said as I closed the door.

“Lightning,” he said. “Scared Valen. She threw me,” he said as I helped him shed his mud-caked cloak. “I've never been thrown before.”

The man was shivering.

“Come,” I said as I led the way to the kitchen. A flick of my wrist later, a fire was blooming in the hearth. I added some more wood.

“Not that I mind,” I began, “but why are you here? I expected you to be home long ago.”

“I was,” he said. “Or, rather, I went to the estate. And then I was on my way back to the city.” He looked to his feet and winced. “Mud everywhere. I’m sorry.”

I chuckled. “There’s always mud. Why do you think I keep no rugs downstairs? Except that one.” I thumbed toward the back door attached to the kitchen, where muddied individuals knew to take off their footwear before entering.

“Is Valen stabled?” I asked.

“She’s under the awning. She’ll be alright. Where is your mop? I’ll clean this up.”

“I’ll take care of it later when the rain’s stopped.”

“I’m already wet,” he said. “I’ll go to the well. Wash my clothes off...”

Before I could protest, the man was out the back door carrying a bucket and aimed for the well. In the mean time I collected the mop.

Erandell’s auburn hair, braid loosened to get the mud out, clung to his translucent white tunic, a tunic that when soaked, I realized, left little to the imagination. The man had a very toned body. This did not come as a surprise, but was nonetheless pleasing to confirm.

As he walked back to the kitchen, full bucket weighing his right half, he smiled broadly and chuckled when he reached the kitchen. I gave him a questioning look.

“You’ve, eh...” He pointed to his cheek as he put down the bucket. “One moment.” He knelt down to unlace his boots.

“You know,” I said, “I’ve lived in his house for however many years now and not once did I think, ‘I should add a mudroom to the back, just off the kitchen.’ No one else thought of it, either. Are mudrooms even a thing in Skyrim? Maybe not.”

“Mud-room?” Erandell stepped up to me and paused to think. “What would a mud-room be?”

“Well, you know.” I gestured to my sides. “A room. Where muddy things go. Before you enter the house. The main part, anyway.”

Erandell just smiled at me.

“No?” I asked.

He took one more step closer, just close enough to bring his hand to my face. “You’ve just got this...” He gave me a discerning look as his thumb swept over my lower cheek. When he took his thumb away, it was black.

“Oh, gods,” I muttered. Erandell just chuckled. “I was writing. It—” I huffed. “Quill mishap.”

Erandell bore a tilted smile. “Have you a rag?” He looked me over. “Maybe two.”

Gooseflesh decorated his forearms. He was still dripping, adding to the floor already wet from being washed.

“Just...” I backed away, heading for the stairs. “Stay by the fire. Warm yourself. I’ll be right back.”

At the top of the stairs, I took a moment to breathe. Several moments, and then several more. I was still feeling nervous, like the emptiness inside that I’d felt earlier was replaced by a boulder in my stomach.

Right. Rags. And clothes for Erandell, should he want to change. I kept most of Stenvar’s newer clothing for the sole reason that one day I knew my children might want or need them. It just so happened that he and Erandell were approximately the same build and height, though Erandell was definitely leaner. The clothes should fit just fine.

When I returned to the kitchen, Erandell was in the midst of removing his sodden tunic. I froze in the doorway just long enough to etch the scene into my memory: the muscles of his shoulders rounded out, his sculpted V-shaped torso bared, the hint of auburn hair trailing down...

The shirt was off and hung on the back of a chair and his hands were on his belt buckle when I announced my return with the intentional scuff of my house shoes. But that did not stop him from disrobing.

“Some clothes for you,” I said as I deposited them on the kitchen table, anchoring my gaze to the hem of a pant leg. “If you don’t want to freeze, that is.” One loud _slop_ later, I knew Erandell’s wet hide trousers had fallen to the floor. “If you need something warmer,” I continued, “we have some house coats upstairs.”

I allowed my gaze to shift to the rags I had found.

Erandell stepped over to the table and picked up the linen pants. “I’ll be alright without a coat,” he said as he dressed. “It was just the dampness. I love the rain, generally, but today’s is a cold rain.”

I stuffed both hands in my skirt’s pockets. “That it is.” I stood on my toes, heels, toes again. “I expect Josse and Orion back soon. I don’t know about the others.” I bit my lip. “You should have stayed for dinner,” I said, acknowledging my slight warning to the man, earlier.

Erandell clicked his tongue. “I’ll never doubt you again.”

I turned to take a peak. He was dressed, now, right down to the socks and heelless house shoes. The slippers were much, much too small, and I chortled. A terribly inelegant sound, but Erandell just grinned.

“Rags?” he asked.

 

Sat at the kitchen table, Erandell used warm water to attempt to clean the ink from my skin. It seemed a lost cause, but I was grateful for his effort.

“I have a mirror, you know,” I told him as I desperately avoided eye contact. “There’s no need for this.”

“The ink looked fresh when I arrived.” He paused. “I won’t bang on your door, next time.”

“It was less your banging than my mindset at that moment. I was writing about—” I sighed. “Well, let’s just say that my imagination, for all of two heartbeats, thought something very bad was about to attack me.”

I turned to Erandell as he made a wicked grin. He quickly fought to neutralize his reaction. “You’re a writer now, too? Let me guess. Cautionary tales for children?”

I snorted. “No. Well...” I thought a moment. “No. I’m writing about all that’s happened in my life.”

The man let his hand rest on the table as he eyed me, taking in the new information. “I see.” He recommenced rubbing at my skin, this time my chin.

If it weren’t for the storm outside, the world would have fallen completely silent.

“I don’t think the ink will come out of my dress,” I said.

“Urine might work,” he offered. “Or buttermilk.”

I scrunched my nose. “It’s a dark dress, anyway.”

“It looks expensive.”

“No.”

Erandell hummed. “Well... it’s a nice dress.” He paused, rag pressed still against my chin. “ _Was_ a nice dress.” He smirked.

I got a chill, and turned away. The fire was dying down. I needed to add another log.

Water sloshed, and a rag was pressed to my upper chest, just above the hem of my dress. Erandell scrubbed a few times before saying, “I’m sorry. Is this alright?”

I turned to him, questioning. “Is what...?”

He nodded to his hand.

I looked down; the ink was splattered in a short line slanting down from my collarbone. The ink was smudged, but still very much there. I eyed Erandell before saying, “It isn’t coming out at all, is it?”

He looked like he was biting the inside of his cheek. “It—a little bit. It gets fainter as I clean.”

His hand remained still, where it was, at the top of my chest. The breast of my dress was soaked from the wet rag. I reached up and removed the rag from his hand and hung it over the side of the bowl. Erandell looked utterly defeated, but when I took his hand in mine, life returned to his eyes.

“Thank you,” I said. “For trying. I wish my children were as obliging about cleaning up their messes.”

“Thank you for taking me in.” He tweaked a smile. “Warming me up.”

Our hands squeezed, perhaps in reflex, at the same time. “You’re staying for dinner,” I ordered. “Or until this storm passes. We can’t very well send Valen back out there after her fright, now can we?”

Erandell chuckled. “Certainly not.”

His ink-stained thumb caressed the back of my hand. I shivered.

“The fire,” I said before standing. “Just... I need to...” I retrieved two chopped logs from the pile (thank you, Josse) and placed them on top of the crumbling charcoal. Two stokes later, the flames were dancing again.

When I turned back around, Erandell was standing next to the chairs on which hung his drying clothes. He watched me a moment, then took further steps toward me.

My heartbeat thudded into my throat.

Without his boots on, Erandell was just slightly taller than me, much like Stenvar. No aching neck just to look into his eyes, and less time to search blindly for his hands. His eyes flicked down, and back up. Another step, then one more, and he was close enough so that when I lightly pulled on his hands his body was flush against mine, and his breath spilled over my mouth. One gentle movement later, our lips connected. Soon, too soon, the kiss ended. He pressed his forehead to mine.

“Was that alright?” he breathed.

I answered him with another quick kiss. “Was that?”

I caught a peak at his smile. He squeezed my hand.

Squealing outside made me jump, and Erandell practically leapt to the other side of the kitchen. I had failed to lock the kitchen door, and in walked a sodden Orion, Josse following.

. . . . . .

The museum was creepy at night. And not because I’d seen the film _Night at the Museum_ and half expected at any given moment our mounted skeletons to start walking around. My museum at night was creepy for the sole reason that I always got a creepy feeling from deserted, empty public spaces—there was a word for that, in some language. It was the feeling one got from apocalyptic films, particularly ones with zombies, and blinking florescent lights, and ghost towns. A foreboding forlornness.

Despite my family being home and living their lives in the main house, the neighboring museum was quiet. Too quiet. Despite having Erandell with me, despite his hand holding mine, I was on edge.

Maybe Erandell was the reason I was on edge.

“They did a good job,” he said, again admiring the addition he had funded.

“You said that earlier today,” I teased.

“Yeah, well, it’s true.” He smiled, then walked himself close to me. Very close. “Will they come looking for you?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically husky.

_They might..._

I looked across the dark room at the hall’s doorways. Doorways that framed doors. Doors that locked. And only I had a key, for now.

I looked to Erandell and grinned.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning:** NSFW
> 
> Mood music: Beyonce's "Crazy In Love" Remix from thatmoviethatshallnotbenamed

Erandell was so strong for a lean man. With little effort Erandell hoisted me up and onto a bare table, one that on which we had not yet decided what to display. It was down to two choices: the metal Dwemer construction that looked like a spider (ew), or the Dwemer construction that looked like a humanoid robot on wheels. Erandell and I were still in conflict over the decision.

The clothing I had given Erandell to wear was thin linen, and the pants did absolutely nothing to constrain his growing erection. After it pressed against the inside of my thigh I had to feel for myself what seemed a considerable size. Erandell buried his face in the crook of my neck as I stroked his length over the fabric. Despite all this, the man’s hands had yet to travel anywhere but my hips and my arms.

“Undo my dress,” I whispered in his ear.

I did not expect him to moan just then, but moan the man did. In what seemed record time, my dress was unfastened and draped around my hips. I had to help him remove my chest wrapping.

Still, he did not touch me where I expected to be touched, where I had been touching him.

“Eran,” I whispered in his ear. He grunted. “You can touch me, you know.” He pulled up and back, slightly, far enough to look me in the eye. “If you want to, I mean.” Suddenly I wasn’t so sure he did. Maybe he felt obliged to do what we’d been doing. He looked so young... He wasn’t, but panic set my heart racing even faster than it had been.

Erandell’s jaw muscles clenched, and he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he said, “You have to tell me.”

I stared at the man. “Tell you... what?”

“Tell me to touch you.”

My mouth hung open, brain unsure how to react. “You... but do you want this?”

“Oh, I very much want this.”

“Then...?”

His fingers slid down my shoulder over the length of my arm, hitching onto my hand. “It’s... how I like it. To be told what to do. Most of the time.” He squeezed my hand and knotted our fingers. “There are other things, but... I want you to tell me what you want me to do.”

And just like that, understanding clicked into place and rolled along like well-oiled cogs.

I asked, “Does it count if I tell you to do whatever you want to do to me?”

He smirked. “Yeah. That works. At least right now, that works.”

I pulled him—rather hard, that time—and he was practically on top of me. I braced myself with one hand, lest I fall off the table. From his wide grin, he was clearly having a good time.

“Well then,” I said as I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled at the shirt I’d given him. “Erandell, I want you to do whatever it is that you would like to do to me. Right. Now.”

He paused, then said, “My safe word is ‘cabbages’.”

He lifted me off the table, and down went my dress.

 

_Cabbages?_ I thought as the man devoured me between my legs. It was the only thought I could muster. Cabbages. Cabbages... stinky things. Farty things. Unsexy vegetable, cabbages. So, so unsexy.

I grabbed onto Erandell’s hair with both hands, and when I pulled a little, his devouring intensified. He used only his lips and tongue on me, having asked me to tie his hands behind his back using my binder. I didn’t need to ask him why he wanted me to do this. I understood, or at least I thought I did.

The man had already brought me to orgasm once. It hadn’t taken long; I had been antsy for months. Now, in my refractory period, I was simply enjoying his persistent attempts. When I grew overly sensitive down there, I pushed against Erandell’s forehead, and he pulled back. His chest was heaving.

“Hey,” I said as I gently tugged at one of his long, wavy tresses. “Come up for some air.”

He smirked, and obeyed. I pulled him in for a long kiss, tasted myself on him. When I reached down, I noticed he lost some of his stiffness. But quickly, very quickly, he reacted to my touch.

“What do you want?” I asked him, our faces close.

“I want what you want,” he answered.

“What I want,” I began, “is for you to be pleased. I want to know what you like to have done to you. How you like to be touched. Or not touched at all, if that is what you prefer.”

I could have sworn I heard him whimper. I continued to stroke his erection, shed of its thin linen covering.

“Good?” I asked.

He nodded.

Erandell definitely whimpered. His cock, swollen and stiff as stone, twitched.

I stood from the table. Erandell took a step back. “Sit,” I said, nodding to the table.

It was a decent height for sexcapades. He was able to kneel before me as I sat there, and I thought I’d be able to do the same.

I was right. Erandell’s erection hung down low enough for me to easily take him into my mouth, kneeling before the empty display table. I used both of my hands on his length simultaneously; it was easiest the longest penis I’d ever been close up and personal with.

I moved slowly, cautiously, not wanting the man to lose himself before being able to fuck me; if I wasn’t fucked soon, I felt I might implode from the tension. I had no way of knowing if a man-elf in his eighties could rise to duty again quickly like a teenaged human, or if he was a done deal after one go.

After what I deemed enough teasing, I stood before him to appreciate the scene. Erandell was sat on the table but reclined, using his tied hands as a support for his lower back. His neck was arched back, face to the ceiling. He was breathing rapidly, the muscles of his chest and abdomen rippling with each shuddering exhalation. I reached forward, for his shoulder, to urge him to sit up.

“Come,” I said, indicating for him to move. He stood swiftly and bounced on his toes, setting his beautiful, sloping erection on a series of bounces as well. I found the scene amusing, but held back my chuckling.

I laid my ink-stained dress and the clothes I had loaned him on the floor. A makeshift blanket to protect against potential splinters.

I stepped closely to Erandell, reached around him, and untied his hands. After, in his ear I whispered, “Lie down.” He did so without hesitation.

To start, I sat on the man’s solid, lean thighs. “Hands,” I said, and he understood, placing his unbound hands before me. I retied them and, moving my body forward, positioned them above his head.

Erandell’s expression was sleepy, neutral. Or, if not neutral, concentrated. I smiled down at the (much) older but (much) younger-looking man, ran my thumb across his goateed chin. He grinned in return.

There was something special about this encounter, this play. I’d never done any sort of non-vanilla sex, aside from switching up positions and using toys. But in having Erandell be submissive, in him _wanting_ to have his hands tied, I found an unexpected comfort. I felt... liberated, in a way. I didn’t have to trust Erandell with my safety.

Unless he had some sort of magic powers with which he could burn the bindings around his wrists—and he made no mention of being a mage—he was offering up his own power to me completely. He was likely stronger than me; even with his hands tied he could use his whole body as a weapon. But I had powers that, frankly, could render just about anyone helpless, useless, dead. The realization that Erandell trusted _me_ enough to offer himself up like this... it felt like something adjacent to love.

I kissed him then, feeling much more emotion in that moment than I had before. I did want his hands on me, to caress and to hold me, but when he kissed me back—a rather sloppy, impassioned snog—I felt no less attended to.

I made a mental note to mention this to Frea. The hand tying. Though she did enjoy being touched above the waist, I continually found it difficult to avoid touching her below. Hand tying. Hand tying... _Yes._

Frea. Frea... She wouldn’t mind. I knew she wouldn’t. We were lovers, non-exclusive. And Erandell knew about her, met her during the months this hall was being constructed. He knew she and I were lovers. And I knew that Erandell wasn’t a monk. We were both bisexual, too, which I found mildly amusing.

I hadn’t realized I was doing it, but while my mind wandered I had begun to grind against Erandell’s erection. Again his neck arched back. Eyes shut, chest heaving, brow knotted. He was likely on edge. I enjoyed keeping him on edge.

I reached down and grasped his lower face with spread fingers a bit more harshly than I had intended. He looked at me immediately with desperate eyes.

“Be careful with this,” I said, meaning his erection. “You’re very long.”

“I know,” he gruffed. “Good you’re on top. To test.”

I set his face free. Erandell locked his gaze to mine.

I needed to reach down to position him, but once the pieces were fit together, he slid easily into place. I could only take perhaps half of him in, by rough estimation. I thought I’d taken more, before, perhaps in other positions, with the likes of Thrynn. He, too, was long, but wider in girth.

In that moment I regretting tying Erandell’s hands together. I wanted him to hold me, to help me move, to stabilize me. But he was right that I needed to test how we fit together. One thrust too hard and I’d be made rather uncomfortable, if not injured.

I moved slowly on top of him, waking muscles in my thighs that I rarely used for actions such as this, these days. I pressed my hands to his chest and pushed against it. He didn’t seem to mind. He was long enough for me to move forward and kiss him without him popping out of me. This, I liked.

Erandell was a good kisser. He didn’t hold himself back, gave no hint of inhibitions. Our tongues danced and, once in a while, I gently bit at his lower lip. He seemed to like that. He seemed to like me.

I hadn’t expected Erandell to want me in this way. He looked _so young_ that this felt like a complete indiscretion. Indeed, his sexual interest in me also made him seem young, like a young man who desired older women. He made me feel like a legit cougar. But the reality was that he was a middle-aged man who found this middle-aged woman attractive in at least one way. And one way was enough.

I wanted Erandell to touch me again, this time at my center. But with his hands tied I took my pleasure into my own hands, literally, and as I rode Erandell, my clit rubbed against my fingers. It was not long before I found myself edging into another orgasm.

“I want you to come with me,” I whispered.

“Yes,” Erandell breathed.

Perhaps he assumed he couldn’t impregnate a woman of my age. He’d have been right—that era of my life was behind me now—but he didn’t ask. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he thought a child with me wouldn’t be a bad thing. Maybe he was just following orders like a good submissive.

I picked up my own pace, thrusting against Erandell harder, taking more of him inside me than I probably should have. He had a strained look on his face, and I thought my expression probably matched. Instead of buttressing myself against his chest I reached to myself to grab a handful of one breast, to massage what I wanted Erandell to massage.

I moved as quickly as my burning thighs would allow. What I wouldn’t have given for him to be behind or on top of me, then, rabbit-fucking me to pieces...

_Next time_ , I thought with a grin.

Erandell still held my gaze. He still looked desperate, pleading. He licked his lips, and I was gone.

“Come,” I squealed, voice shuddering. “Come...”

He did. We did. Erandell cried out in loud, staccato moans and I was screaming as I tended to do when having an intense orgasm. Erandell allowed himself several small thrusts up to meet me, then stilled. I sat panting on top of him, one hand on my breast and one between my legs. He swallowed hard while still looking at me, into my eyes. He no longer looked desperate. He looked grateful and, I thought, admirative.

After a slow, gentler kiss, I lay at Erandell’s side and put my head down on his chest. “Was that alright for you?” I asked.

“Yes. You?”

“Yes.” I arched my neck to look at him. “I’d never tied anyone like that before. I hadn’t thought of it... maybe because I don’t—I don’t think I’d want to be tied.” For reasons.

“Then you won’t be,” he said with a smile.

I kissed him again.

“You know,” he began, “we just made love in a thing we created. It seems appropriate. Almost poetic.”

I chuckled. “If you say so.”

“No? You don’t think so?”

I shrugged. “It would have felt just as appropriate in any part of the museum. Or in the storage room where some of your family’s crates still sit. Outside in the rain. In your family estate. Or, I suppose, literally anywhere.” He chuckled, and I rested my chin on my hand, pressed to his chest. “I like you, Erandell Pure-Spring.”

He smiled. “I like you, too, Deborah Red.”

I play-smacked his torso. “That is not my name.”

“Apologies,” he said with a naughty grin.

“You’re not sorry. I can tell when you’re not sorry.”

He said nothing, only kept grinning.

With a growl I sat up, smacked my parched lips. “I guess we should go. I should get back to the house. Just in case...” I looked over to Erandell, still lying on our clothes. My hand, having a mind of its own, ran down the length of him from neck to hip. He had a very smooth torso.

“Stay the night?” I asked, suddenly far less confident.

. . . . . .

The rooster told me it was morning much earlier than I would have liked. I woke with a start, still not used to the rural alarm clock.

I groaned. “I dreamt of construction,” I told Erandell, who was already gazing at me when I opened my eyes. “Banging,” I said. “Hammers, hammers, hammers...”

“Mama?” came a loud knock at the door, insistent, annoyed. “Mama, are you alright?”

“She’s been knocking for a while, now,” Erandell whispered.

I groggily squinted up at him. “What?”

The door creaked open. I had forgotten to lock the door. My lizard brain was apparently still asleep, and instead of scrambling to cover myself with a bedsheet or run and shove shut the door, I froze. I froze with my naked ass facing the bedroom door, facing my daughter.

The room was quiet until Erandell—bless his heart—waved and greeted Sara with a jolly “Good morning!”

The door closed as quickly as it opened.

I turned to make sure she was gone, and then curled into the fetal position against Erandell’s naked and uncovered body.

“My daughter saw my butt,” I said. “Saw my butt, next to your butt. Saw our butts.”

“Actually,” he said, “she didn’t see my _butt_...” He cleared his throat and turned his body toward me, his flaccid but still long penis flopping to the bed.

I groaned.

Erandell laughed. “Is there a problem?”

I finally looked him in the eye. “It’s... no, not a _problem_. I just... I’m... private.”

“I think you mean shy.”

“Yes.”

“There’s no reason to be.”

“My teenaged daughter just saw me naked. Saw you naked. She knows you. She’s _talked_ with you. We had dinner together! This is horrifying.”

Erandell was positively cracking up. I smacked his shoulder. “It isn’t funny!” I insisted. “I might have scarred her for life.”

“I think she just thought it best to leave us to it, darling.”

_Darling_. I almost giggled, but just smirked at the man. “Are you hungry?”

He nodded.

“Alright.” I slid out of the bed and smacked Erandell’s bum. “Come on. I think we’ve earned a big breakfast.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Holly, who wrote a comment that fed me and my dragonsouls enough for me to finish this chapter. Thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** NSFW (near the end). I haven’t gotten this smutty in years. Ya’ll better like it. (kidding).
> 
> Let me know with a comment how you felt about this chapter... it’s written somewhat differently, but that’s intended, because Deb is different, and something is coming.

 

“I’m not sure if I should write about it,” I said to Bird. “I already wrote that I was raped by those bandits. How will it look if I write that I was nearly...” My stomach turned at the physical memory. My body all but broken, my armor destroyed. His teeth grazing my neck. Icy, hard, undead flesh behind me...

“Hold on,” Bird said. He sat on my bed, hands pressed against his knees. He gave me a hard stare. “You’re questioning whether or not to tell the truth about that monster? Because why? Someone might think poorly of you?”

I swallowed hard and lowered my gaze to my biographic work in progress. “Not just ‘someone’. But... my children, for instance. Or anyone who... who might look up to me. Someone like me.” I looked to Bird again. His face was screwed to the side; it was his ‘you’re insane’ expression.

“First of all,” he said, and I heard him walking over to my desk. His hands landed on my shoulders, gave them a brief massage. “You shouldn’t be thinking about something like _that_ right now. You need to sleep tonight. Early start, tomorrow.”

“Early for you, maybe. I plan on sleeping in and arriving fashionably late.”

“Marc will have a fit if you’re late. Please don’t do that to me...”

I smirked at Bird.

“Second of all,” he said before kissing the top of my head, “you were attacked. Torug attacked you. Those bandits attacked you. None of it was your fault. I know you know this.”

“Yeah... but—”

“Write about it. In the end it’s your decision, but I say write about it. You don’t have to give details. That’s not necessary. You weren’t specific about the bandits. But to not write about it at all...” He shook his head and crossed his arms. “Some girl, some woman somewhere, will read that one day and think to herself, ‘Sweet Mara, if that can happen to the Dragonborn of all people, I shouldn’t feel so bad that it happened to me’.”

 _Damn_. I took a deep breath and sighed it out, then corked my inkpot. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I know.” He smiled that fish-hook smile and tossed his long, silvered-blond hair over his shoulder. “Alright. Anything else before I go? I should probably make sure Marc hasn’t died of stress.”

“No, no. Nothing...” I stood, and we walked toward my bedroom door. “Except that I fucked Erandell.”

Bird stopped mid-stride, pivoted on his toes to me, and gawked. “Did he fuck you back?”

I burst out in a short-lived belly laugh. “Yeah. It was a mutual fucking.”

Bird smiled. “Well, good. Good for you. Good for _him_.” He was grinning now. “He’s a nice guy.”

“He is a very nice guy.”

“Well then. Don’t let this very nice guy or thoughts of evil vampires keep you up too late. I need you rested for tomorrow.”

“You don't need me for anything tomorrow. I'm just going as a guest. Blend in with the crowd, shake a few hands, go home early with Orion.”

“Bullocks to that. You've got a room at the palace. You should use it.”

“ _Meh_ ,” I said, shrugging.

Bird sighed and leaned over to kiss my cheek. He walked to the door and turned, pointed at me and said, “Tomorrow.”

. . . . . .

“Oh my gods, Flavia.”

I wept when I saw her. My firstborn, eighteen years old and in a royal(ly expensive) wedding gown. White and shimmery, tiny pearls, silver and gold embroidery, commissioned and transported from Solitude. The dress was as elegant and refined as Flavia turned out to be.

“Mama,” she said, smiling and taking me in for a careful hug.

As I held her, something bothered me. A foggy feeling of unease. But there were no ghosts in the corner of the room nor dragons swirling in my mind, so I quickly shook off the feeling.

Until Flavia ran over to a potted plant and vomited up what appeared to be milk, or milky liquid.

I knew immediately, thanks to my ever-keen dragon sense. Connected the dots. My expression must have conveyed this because Flavia, after cleaning her mouth and swishing some water (and spitting that too into the plant soil), looked to me like a guilty child who was caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Nowhere to run.

“At least you’re not showing yet,” I said.

“I _know_ ,” she sighed, and sat on a cushioned bench. I sat next to her and tidied her up-do--her pale blond hair atop her head was decorated with more tiny pearls and silver beads. Curled tresses spun down here and there.

“What if that happens during the ceremony?” she said. “What if I throw up on the king!”

I smiled. “You might. Weirder things have happened.”

Flavia whined and buried her face in her hands. I worried she’d smudge her make-up, and urged her to sit upright.

“You know, there’s a superstition that says the worse the wedding, the better the marriage. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“No. That doesn’t make any sense.”

I smiled. “About as much sense as bird poop on your head being good luck.”

Flavia scrunched her nose.

“How many months?” I asked.

“One and a half.”

 _Ah_. “Balki’s sixteenth birthday,” I said with a knowing chuckle. “Well. At least you waited until he was of age.” I looked to Flavia and added, “Don’t tell me if it’s otherwise. I don’t need to know.”

Flavia looked away, and then back to me. “Does it matter? That we weren’t married yet?”

“Matter for...?”

“The royal line.”

“Oh, no. I don’t think so.” I paused, then added, “But, if you’re worried about what people will think, we’ll just say the baby came early. Like you did.”

“I did?”

I nodded. “Two whole weeks, or thereabouts.”

She frowned. “That is much less than six weeks.”

“Bah,” I said, waving my hand. “I don’t think it will matter. It’s my understanding most people see pregnancy as a blessing from the Divines. Especially Kyne. Right? I bet everyone will be overjoyed.”

Flavia was still frowning.

“Tell you what,” I continued, “if you vomit, we’ll just say you have a bit of a stomach upset, but I can vouch that you’re not ill and not contagious and that everyone should just relax and have fun.”

I reached for Flavia’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and patted it with my other hand. “Oh, and, don’t drink any wine or mead or ale. At all. For as long as that babe is within you and until it’s weened onto solid foods.”

Flavia’s eyes flashed wide. “I... Oh, no... Why?”

I patted her hand. “Trust me. We can talk about it another day. Today you can take fake sips if anyone is waiting for you to drink something other than water.”

I took Flavia’s hands into mine, gave her a smile, and asked, “Are you ready?”

. . . . . .

High King Balgruuf and Queen Elisif sent out for a priest of Mara, and while Marcurio didn’t have to officiate this wedding, he was still organizing it, like he had for me and Stenvar. He thought he could handle it but, apparently, royal weddings were a bit more complicated than he’d bargained for, simply because of the sheer number of guests, and the fact that everything had to be _perfect_.

Frankly, he was driving us insane.

“Marc,” I said, gripping his tunic sleeve rather hard. “Marc, you need to calm down. Eat some cake. Eat a lot of cake. Drink a lot of wine. The ceremony is over! It’s just the party, now. One big royal party, and it’s going absolutely fine.”

I swore I could see each individual muscle in his body relax. “Right. Right.” He said, nodding continuously. “Wine sounds good.”

“Go find Bird. Go dance. Hug your daughter and your son-in-law. Congratulations and all that.” I patted his shoulder.

Marcurio, half in a daze, walked away and into the sea of shining, happy people. Their din roared over the music which Ash helped produce. I could barely make out the tune from way across the palace’s great hall, but I heard his voice and his lute, occasionally, in those moments that a crowd’s collective voice dimmed like a receding wave before swelling again.

“Hey, beautiful,” crooned a voice in my ear.

I jumped and spun round, and started when confronted by the up-close-and-very-red Erandell. Not him himself, but his outfit—bright fresh-blood red coat, streaming behind him, hanging the length of his knees or just about, toggled in gold with a black vertical trim. He was a slim-ish guy, but that coat was designed to be slimming. For that first couple of seconds he looked like a veritable Red Coat and I had to wonder if someone from that period of Earth history had found their way to Tamriel, started a fashion line...

“Hey, beautiful,” I returned to him, and planted an audible kiss on his cheek.

Erandell wasn’t satisfied by this. He took hold of my hips and pressed his lips to mine. One heartbeat, two heartbeats, ten of them but faster by the end, as it was...

We weren’t exactly a secret, our whatever-relationship. I just wasn’t sure, until that very moment, if he wanted the entirety of Skyrim’s high society to know we had a whatever-relationship.

“I didn’t see you,” I told him. He’d been elusive until then, which seemed somehow impossible, given his coat.

“You were otherwise engaged,” he said.

“I guess.” And then I glowered. “I feel old, today. More than I thought I would. Twice as much, in fact.”

“Would it help to remind you that I am, actually, twice your age, or thereabouts?”

I chuckled. “You haven’t one hundred years, but nice try.”

He kissed me again.

“You look lovely,” he said, regarding my nicer-than-all-dresses -I’ve-ever-owned-combined dark-dark-red shiny thing that Morgana helped me pick out and Balgruuf paid for without a thought.

“Thanks. It’s heavy and I’m sweating in places...” I smirked. “You look good too. Did you plan it? The red?” I did a little swish with the skirt of my dress.

“No. This thing is old.”

“Doesn’t look old.”

“Neither do I, to hear you tell it.” He winked at me.

I pinched his chin for a second and give him a knowing grin. “Have you seen Virald? He was supposed to be here. Or at least he knew what day the wedding was.”

“What does your goddess power tell you?”

I gave him a look. “That’s not what it is. You know what it is.”

“I know what I see.”

I rolled my eyes, ignored Erandell and his grinning, but did as he suggested and mentally cast my spell to help me locate my eldest son. The blue fog failed to bother forming—he was far, far away.

I let out a sigh. “He isn’t here.”

“He can make it up to his sister, then. Big gifts, Skaal blessings, and all that.”

I waved it off. “It’s well enough he’s not here. I’m not ready to be a grandmother.”

“Just because you haven’t seen the babe doesn’t mean you’re not a grandmother.”

I gave Erandell a _that isn’t what I meant_ look—but he couldn’t have known that, or why it wasn’t what I meant.

I turned to find Flavia amongst a hoard of well-wishers, standing out like the moon in the sky. Or at least Earth’s bright, singular moon. Even Masser could never compare to Luna’s beauty.

 

Erandell and I got drunk. Not terribly drunk, not carry-me-home drunk. Just pleasantly drunk, and thankfully Josse was Orion’s personal guard tonight, also minding the other children who he was off somewhere playing with, who were also minded by whoever else worked in the palace, minding palace-dwelling children...

“Maybe we should stay the night after all,” I said to Erandell, sitting on his lap, on a cushioned bench in a smaller hall behind the great hall that was only half as populated and a third as loud. “I mean, if you can, if you want to. I have a room here. My room. Ol’ Gruufi says it’s ‘The Dragonborn’s Room’ whoever that person may be and for now that person is me so it’s my room.”

“Wow, you are, indeed, inebriated.”

I _mrrp_ ed his nose. “Li’l bit. Big word, that. Not sure I ever heard it before. Must be Torug’s brain in my brain telling me what it meant. Means. Drunk. Big word for drunk.”

Erandell shook his head. He was hardly even tipsy, the bastard. “I’ll never get over the idea that you have another person, dragons inside of you, in your head.”

“In my soul. Of my soul. Think of it like paint, when you mix white with red you get pink, or yellow and blue you get green.” I cackled. “I—I have so many colors in me that I’m brown. That’s what happens, you know, when you combine all the paints together. Just earth brown, or black if the paints are dark.”

I cackled again and then I swooned. Erandell, with his arms around me, had me covered, anchored, protected. He kissed me. He kissed me. He kissed me...

 

My designated bedroom was not far, just a bit further into the palace, up stairs that _thank fuck_ had a railing to hold onto. There were a few turns—and some wrong turns—and then we were there, in my room, huge hulking doors locked with an actual wooden-beam barricade that fell into place onto iron settings after loosening the attached iron chain.

We wanted to rip into each other but these clothes—these worth-more-than-my-right-foot clothes—were to be respected. Even in my drunkenness I knew that. So we kissed while we undressed each other. I needed his help just as I’d needed help getting into the heavy winter dress. His coat was off and on a hook in no time but his tunic, a dark velvety thing, black in this room with no lit candles or braziers, had to be undone button by button by button and _oh gods_ how I needed it and the linen shirt underneath to be off of him _now_.

Erandell was wearing leather trousers with an unpolished hide lining and, thankfully for him, slid off no problem, as his ‘tent’ as I so coyishly told him looked ‘painfully pitched’. He giggled at this comment and then my dress was off (and on the floor, oh well) and I was on top of him, on the bed, kissing and kissing and kissing as he untucked my chest binding and flung it wherever.

That night neither of us had on any loincloth-type underthings to bother yanking off and neither of us needed more revving and I was on him, taking him in, as much as I could which was actually quite a lot. He and I and our parts were used to one another, and it was easier, in fact, after all those births to take a man or Frea’s strap-on-cock in me whenever, however soon, despite the dryness which spit did a pretty fine job aiding in and when it didn’t, at home, I had oils that _really_ helped.

I was probably loud. No matter. The wedding was louder—I could still hear it, the laughter and the music and the gossip, however muffled. As I rose and fell against Erandell’s lithe body I scratched at his hairless chest but he liked it, loved it, told me he wanted it that one time and then I just did it when I wanted—and I did—healing him after, during, doing it all over again. Not hard, no blood, just welts. He liked the welts. Sometimes I’d see him after a while and he’d have welts I did not give him, some other lover with no magic to heal him, but that was fine because he was not mine and I was not his and it was perfect, frankly, because I literally had a houseful of things to do besides him. But I liked when Erandell came ‘round and I liked that I could have him this way, this free way, to play lightly or roughly or _very roughly_ at times and I’d have this sort of release that I’d never had before, not really, outside of combat. The dragons, I’d told him, they liked it violent, and when I was with him I could hear the dragons singing.

So he let me, encouraged me to take him this way, take control and control him and tell him what to do and how to do it, or use him however I needed him. But I made him tell me what he wanted, too, which most times paralleled what I wanted, he claimed, but he had desires like any sentient being and I met them, encouraged them, and sometimes, once in a while, he’d have his way with me, too. And after it all, even with my healing magic we’d take account of my actions and his feelings, or in that rare moment his actions and my feelings, and we’d make sure we were solid inside and out. The naked truth, as it was. And we’d never once needed to utter ‘cabbages’.

There were other things Erandell liked. He liked his long hair to be pulled, but only if it was braided. Tonight his dark auburn hair was split in two braids that flew out to his sides and I grabbed them and pulled as I rode him. He grunted and growled and half-sat up, giving into the tugging. Then he whole-sat up and wrapped his arms around me as I rode him even harder. My breasts might have slapped him in the face but he liked that too, he’d said that time after it happened by accident. He liked to be slapped, sometimes, by hand, by object, on the face sometimes but especially on his ass. He liked to be spanked, to be teased anywhere on his golden body but not tickled, never tickled.

He liked to be cuffed around his balls while he came and _oh gods_ he loved that. He had rings he’d use, sometimes, like tonight I realized as soon as I’d disrobed him and felt his erection. A golden cock ring, my temporary Candlelight spell showed. I had cast the spell, wanting to inspect his arousal because the man had an arguably _beautiful_ cock and I simply liked seeing it, but that was fine, because he loved to be seen, regarded and studied, appreciated and admired, even _stared at_ , especially when he was hard, and _especially_ when he was hard and roped down and helpless. I saw that cock ring, I felt it, warmed to his body’s heat, and I knew that tonight he’d stay hard for _hours_.

He bit me, sometimes, and I liked it. Not too hard. No blood. Tonight be bit me. I slowed my thrusting and he bit the flesh of my chest between breast and collarbone. He bit a nipple because that didn’t hurt me anymore but rather felt good. He nibbled the fleshy underside of my left arm, and then on my shoulder he really clamped down, and I liked it, a lot.

He liked to be tied up, often. I had joked that his braids were long enough to rope him down and he’d liked that idea—we tried it and, furniture granting, it worked. But tonight it was dark and I was drunk and I couldn’t remember what was in this room and didn’t feel like looking so we just fucked, and fucked, and fucked until I was dry. And then he attached his mouth to my cunt and ate and ate and ate until certainly I had some wetness again but he kept going, wanted me to sit on him, on his face, and I did, his nose rubbing against my clit as he took me for his dessert. And I reached behind me and grabbed at his ring-hard cock— _JESUS CHRIST_ it was hard. I pumped his erection again and again, fast and faster with my spit-moistened palm until I thought he’d had enough so I reached lower and tugged at his balls, and I knew it felt good by his squirming, his clenched and shaking thighs, and his helpless, _helpless_ little whimpers, and that he didn’t tap out—three taps for a silent ‘cabbages’. We never used that one, either.

And then he was behind me. I was dizzy from the wine and from exhaustion but he was like that damn Energizer Bunny just going, going, going, pounding me like that bunny did his drum. I knew I was screaming but I did it into a pillow, so fucking good it felt, he knew I loved this position, even if a bit painful as he was so long. My fingers played at my clit and sometimes his balls and he’d gasp when that happened and I loved it.

And then I was dry again and I cursed and wished for some oil but we settled for more mouths and tongues, and fingers that were small enough no matter what. And I did the same for him, then, a Pisces game of _find the bits in the pitch-black room_ , fingers in and around and cupping and rubbing until I came so fucking hard I woke up the dragons in my head. They flew around in there, knowing, sensing the height of me as I flew alongside them.

Erandell let himself go then, with that cock ring on. I thought it was supposed to hurt him if he came but no, he assured, he loved it, and he came on my breasts as I sucked on his nearly hairless balls. He whined as his body jerked in its shallow thrusts, my one hand gliding up and down his slickened cock and the other busy with a finger inside him.

We laid there in our mess, panting, ignoring time and the world beyond those barred doors. I was thankful, then, for the lack of candlelight—I couldn’t remember where the candelabras were in the room and my magic didn’t work well without knowing and I was too delirious to cast spells anyway. Even so I didn’t want to be seen like that, didn’t like it, all goopy with the aftermath of sex. To me the aftermath was unappealing and made me feel unappealing and right then, I guessed, we were both in dire need of a bath. (Erandell, though, gods bless him, licked me clean, everywhere, which I let him, despite it weirding me out, just a little—to each their own.)

 

I felt myself sobering. Sticky with love, and sobering. Erandell was snoozing, his little puppy snores near my ear. But I couldn’t sleep, wide awake I was, as usual, after sex. The complete opposite of Erandell, of most men. I felt I could run a marathon, or go on a short jog, at least.

The dragons were still there, the pervs, knowing what naughty things I’d just done. Or maybe they didn’t understand sex, exactly, as dragons did not breed—they just were or were not. Sometimes they could come back, if killed, by a spell, so I’d learned from Paarthurnax. They couldn’t _die_ unless I, or another Dragonborn, ate their soul (willingly or not). When they _died_ , they were dead, full stop, unless they lived on, like in me, in my being, a part of me, leaving the recipient not quite schizophrenic or multiple-personalitied, but close enough to that, I assumed.

Sometimes they gave me a headache, like now. Sometimes it went away, sometimes not, for days, and days. Sometimes it was bad, real bad, lightning everywhere bad. Like now. Maybe I’d been distracted by Erandell and his parts, or maybe the headache just decided to creep up after we’d finished. There wasn’t anything that could get rid of _these_ headaches, as they were not of my physical, actual brain or of my blood or meninges or skull but rather my thoughts, and thoughts were, unfortunately, intangible and unreceptive to any of Skyrim’s curatives, even magic which could do many things to the intangible.

My father had this thing called ocular migraines. He saw shimmery halos when they came on, had to stop driving or he could crash. He knew the headaches would come after that, shortly after, and they were bad. Had-to-lay-down bad. What I had was not this, it was the dragons, I knew it was, but I likened it to my father’s intermittent ailment. It was just as random, nothing causing nor curing. In this way I couldn’t wholly hate the headaches because they made me think of my father, and even if they hadn’t they reminded me of the dragons’ presence, of me never being alone in this universe again until I died, and maybe not even then. Who could tell? Certainly not the gods or Meridia or Elodie. _Thanks for the heads up—not._

I felt gross, then. Really gross. Not just love-juice-on-my-tits gross but inside and everywhere gross. And I threw up, over the edge of that tall royal bed, onto the hardwood floor. There wasn’t much left in me but wine, and it burned my esophagus. I cast a bit of a healing spell just because it hurt, an automatic response that might not have actually done anything.

I knew I had to get up, clean up, adult up. I cast a tracking Candlelight spell, the kind that stayed atop my head, a supernatural—or in Skyrim’s case perfectly natural—headlamp. I found a rag, dipped it in the (enormous and silver) washbasin, cleaned up my vomit. I used another rag to clean myself, inside and out. So sticky. I found a bit of soap and finally felt clean, and smelled like flowers instead of salt-crème.

I felt better, on the outside, but on the inside my head was still lightning. I shifted the covers we’d decorated and laid on the clean linen under it, thinking I was maybe feeling a bit feverish without the chill. And not just feverish but jittery, almost caffeinated.

Innervated.

Yes. Good word. Perfect word.

Something inside me was ecstatic, and I knew it was the dragons, or at least one of them. In my thoughts, _as_ my thoughts, it was flitting around, bouncing against the edges of my mind, a restless genie in a bottle. I likened the energy to house pets before an earthquake or a tornado or even a thunderstorm, and that just made me think of Krikit, buried next to Stenvar, my silver dog who hated thunderstorms, and then I thought of Sam who didn’t mind them at all because Sam had been a very good boy, the best boy, yes he was, and now I knew that he was long dead too as well might be my mother.

And I cried. Quietly, as not to disturb the sleeping puppy beside me. I found an excess pillow and held it to my chest to press it against my heart, holding it in, not letting it flee to my previous life where everything I knew was likely old and grey or gone. I hadn’t thought about _that_ in years, many years, so much time spent here busy or happy, or so sad I couldn’t think at all. I thought of my sister who I told myself had a perfect family and a perfect job and a perfect life and was thinking about what she might do after she retired. I so wanted to tell Rachel that she had a niece, and a nephew, and younger twin nieces, and a younger nephew, and a grand-nibling who I didn’t know the name or birth-sex of or even if they lived past birth, and now there was a second grand-nibling on the way. Rachel didn’t know that her sister was a mother, a grandmother, a museum-owner, a widow twice fucking over, and a lover still even in the autumn of her life. And that I was happy, now, finally, after being happy then sad then happy then sad. And she’d never know, not unless somehow, somewhen, someone took my memoir that wasn’t even finished yet, took it or a copy and brought it to Earth. Except, I reminded myself, the memoir was in Norren, and, well, that simply wouldn’t do, would it?

The pain in my head intensified. Maybe that was what being electrocuted felt like, on a low current with no off switch.

“ _Fuuuck_ ,” I said to the ceiling, hand on my head, pushing against the pain.

“Deb?” he said, the no-longer-snoring puppy at my side. His hand, gentle and soft but for the tips of his fingers which were calloused from all those years fletching, grasped my wrist, willing it away from my head. The backs of his fingers grazed my cheek, like feathers. Without even a wave of my hand I cast a small bit of Magelight that hovered above the bed, clinging to a rafter. I wanted him to see I was not injured, on the outside.

“Headache,” I said, and he knew what that meant, when I had to cry the word instead of just heal it away without bothering anyone.

He kissed my temple, my brow, the side of my head. He smoothed his gracile hand over my hair, brushing it back.

“Anything I can do?” he asked with such a small voice it felt far away.

I shook my head, and felt the tickle of a tear making its way down and into my ear. One side, and then the other. I rubbed my ears, wiped the teardrop away.

“Are you sure sex isn’t a cause?” he asked, again, having asked that at least a few times previous.

“It is not,” I confirmed, and breathed, slowly, deeply, like yoga breathing.

He kissed the side of my head again. He curled his fingers around my hand and kissed mine, one by one, including my thumb. He nuzzled up against me, his forehead pressed to my cheek, breath on my neck, hand on my breast, cock on my thigh, legs weaving with mine, and I loved him for it. He tried, as Stenvar had tried, as Frea _really_ tried with all her magic, and I loved them all the more for it. But this was just how it was with me, my crazy, and its harder side effects. And they accepted that, my loves.

So many loves.

It was wrong, then, to think of Yrsarald, and I knew it but it couldn’t be helped. I felt him there, at my other, colder side, holding my hand, kissing the palm, pressing up against me with his fuzzy, thick body, protecting. And I cried again, from that other pain, different from the pain in my head or from my universe-lost life.

 _Yrsa_ , I said to him, the him in my head who would always be there, _you’re a grandfather, did you know? Have you met the babe? Have they lived? Have they smiled yet? And you wouldn’t believe—about Flavia..._

What a grandfather that man would have been.

I was shaking, I knew, because Erandell was not shaking and neither was the bed but it was my lungs begging for oxygen. I curled up against my lover and smelled myself on him, so much of me, and he held me and held me and held me as I cried.

 _Fly_ , said the voice, a voice in my head, not Erandell, in that speech of thought that never changed no matter the universe. _Fly, black wings, fly, fly_.

An ice pick was shoved into my temple, the lateral wing of my sphenoid, I told myself, seeing the bone in my mind’s eyes, remembering. The pain was otherworldly and I cried out, and Erandell jumped.

“This is different,” he said, sitting up. “I’m going to find a healer. Marc.”

The warmth from my side was gone, rustling, Erandell putting on his clothes, I guessed.

And then the world shook. Not me and my oxygen-starved lungs, but the world, the entirety of it. The globus of Nirn trembled in fear and I felt it, and the dragons in my head, they roared fire and ice and warning.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: “What A Wonderful World” by Joseph William Morgan, then “Ain’t No Grave” by Hidden Citizens.
> 
> This chapter didn't really turn out like I envisioned while listening to the above tracks, but that's how it always is when we translate the movies in our minds to human language. In the end, it's close enough...

The palace shook so hard that I fell, ripping my new red dress the full length of one side. Erandell helped me up then ran to the wardrobe, searching. I sat on the bed, cradling my head with its phantom railroad spikes driven within.

Erandell grabbed clothing he assumed to be mine—maybe they were—and brought them over, tossed them to the bed. The Magelight spell above shone brightly, and I dressed in heavy winter garb that was much too big on me. They made me wonder if they had been meant for Stenvar... or even Yrsarald, as he had stayed with me here once upon a time.

By the time I was dressed, my headache was gone. With trousers held up by a belt and dressy boots upon my feet, I set out into the palace full of screaming celebrants. Erandell stayed behind to dress himself.

I weaved through the mob like a shark through the ocean. I had a single target.

I didn’t find him, but I found his wife. “Elisif!” I hollered, gaining her attention. She gripped my shirt sleeve like it, or I, was her personal savior.

The queen’s eyes were wide, horrored. Guards rushed past us—toward the Great Porch.

 _Dragon_ , said my mind, my gut, my blood.

It was not here to harm.

I ran to the porch with the guards. I pushed them aside, pushed everyone aside. A great roar shook the palace again and men and women alike screamed, shouted orders. The massive porch doors were left wide open. A concert of arrows loosed forward in an arc, glittering from the brazier light.

I clenched my fists, inhaled, and let go.

Force. Balance. Push.

The world stopped spinning. The guards—everyone—hushed, turned to me. I had Shouted toward the sky, bypassing person, dragon, masonry, but those nearest were covering their ears and wincing. They widened a path for me, lurching backward, avoiding.

What was the epithet Stenvar taught me?

_The One They Fear._

He had meant dragons. Dragons feared the Dragonborn, so went the song. For mortals, well... Awe and fear were overlapping emotions.

Above the heads of the people I saw the mass of red I knew to be Nahfahlaar. Brother.

Kin.

A rash of arrows, some snapped, had collected on the porch floor. I toed them away. Nahfahlaar bowed his head and exhaled through his great nostrils. I looked to my left, right, to his wings. There were some holes—some blood, too, but not much. I grabbed a hold of Nahfahlaar’s head, as long as my body was tall, and let out healing magic, willing the spell to find its way to wounds old and new. If dragons could sigh, Nahfahlaar did just that. In my heart I knew that he was healing.

Dragons loved—and hated—the magic of the Divines.

“What is this!?” bellowed a lion of a man from behind me. I knew him by tone to be Balgruuf, but for the briefest of moments, I saw Ulfric in my mind’s eye. The two jarls had so much in common, despite their later differences...

I ignored my king, clinging to Nahfahlaar, maintaining the spell. I pressed my forehead to my brother’s crown, cold and hard as steel.

Balgruuf stood down. A lesser man might have grabbed me, pulled me from this beast. Ol’ Gruufi was a good egg.

“Oh, Stendarr’s mercy,” cried Elisif. “The banquet!”

Yes. The banquet. Nahfahlaar had landed on our food. Flavia and Balki’s food. The cake.

Food was not what this porch was for.

I let my magic dissipate. Nahfahlaar snorted and his nose gently butted my abdomen. Enough.

“Danger palace,” I said to him in the tongue of Akatosh.

“Fly sun rest,” he grunted, quaking the palace, just a bit.

“Is danger sun rest?” I asked.

“ _Geh_ ,” was his answer. “Fly, black wings.”

“Alduin,” I whispered. “Yes. Understand.”

Then Nahfahlaar grunted, “Black wings sing dragons undead alive,” and this confused me greatly.

I pressed my palm to what could be called his cheek. “Is dragons undead alive? Unknown.”

Nahfahlaar snorted loudly. “Dragons undead alive—know. Fly.”

“Mama!?” Angel-light footballs trotted my way, followed by a set only slightly heavier. Flavia arrived with Balki in tow—she had to, as their hands had been fasted. Marcurio and Bird were not long to follow. They both looked flushed red and glistening with sweat. They had been dancing. Or fucking.

I turned to my firstborn and let my lips paint a smile. “Flavia. My beauty,” I said as I kissed her on the forehead. Erandell arrived then, disheveled in his finery, and I kissed him on the lips.

“Dragon,” murmured Marcurio as he clutched Bird’s sleeve. I raised my hand to cup Marcurio’s balmy cheek, then kissed him and Bird in turn.

I grabbed Balgruuf by the cuff and pulled him aside, by the wing of Nahfahlaar, so that no one dared near.

I looked to my king and said, “To the barracks, then the undercity. Something comes—I feel it. I have to leave now.” I leaned in and, on my toes, kissed the man’s cheek. Into his ear I whispered, “Watch over your people, High-King.”

I walked him back over to his wife, to the crowd. Jossi was there, now, Orion and other small children looking on from behind the jamb of the great porch doors. Sara was nowhere to be seen but in ran Vara, decked in metal, shining. Behind her trotted Vilkas and Farkas.

Vara bolted to me with her hand on her sword. She began to say things but I pulled her in for a hug. With a hold on the back of her head I pulled away and looked upon her, my husband’s daughter, my warrior. I couldn’t not cry.

“You look just like him,” I sobbed out before kissing her forehead. Her brow was in a tight knot and she said more words but I cut her off by saying, “Find your sister. Listen to your king. Find Virald and tell him—” I stared, suddenly breathless, my mind a void. “Tell him...”

“I know, Mom,” Vara said with a nod. “I will.”

Sara. Somewhere was Sara. No time to find her...

She would know. She would know how I loved her. It was all written down, in my memoir, in my will.

I took in a sharp breath and looked Orion’s way and he ran to me, clung to me, pulled at the shirt I swam in. I kissed the top of his head, his nose, his cheek, his earlobe. “What a wonder you are becoming, my lovely child.” I held him tighter than any of them, my baby, Stenvar’s baby. Jossi took his hand and stepped back, pulling Orion with her. I gave my housecarl a nod. Orion cried. He protested. He tried to pull away, screamed.

I pierced my tongue with an eye tooth to stop myself from crumbling.

Erandell came to my side, asked what was happening. I told him what I knew, same as I told Balgruuf. I kissed him, kissed him, kissed him... I leaned into him, pressed my forehead to his. And all I could muster was a half-choked “Thank you for loving me.”

I pushed Erandell, gently, away. I stepped back, toward Nahfahlaar’s wing which rested its bones on the porch floor. I climbed there as Nahfahlaar knew I would. I sat between two dorsal spines and held onto the one before me like a saddle horn. I kicked his flank as I would a horse. His wings rose and flapped and pushed at the air, flushed it below his body, battered the onlookers and my screaming lastborn. Fabric napkins and other swaths fluttered like autumn leaves and banners and we were off the porch, bobbing between wing thrusts, rising and rising until each mortal below was but a colorful dot, some of them shimmering in the moon and firelight.

 

I couldn’t guide Nahfahlaar like I might a horse, with my legs or a kick. He wanted to take me northwest but I needed to be home, first. I needed my armor. What I was wearing would just get me killed, snagged on someone’s sword or an errant jagged rock. So I made it known, somehow—thoughts or pheromones or something else altogether. But he understood, and he took me to my homestead. He wouldn’t have known where it was, never seen it. I couldn’t just say to him “go to my home”.

He landed in the dirt road. I heard our horses whiney. They didn’t know they weren’t about to be dinner.

I ran into my house, up the stairs, to my bedroom. The armor sat on a mannequin which had always freaked me out, particularly with clothes draped on it. I unfastened buckles and tugged off the multiple layers. I shed myself of my linen garments, changed my underwear, forwent my chest binding. The leggings were heavy cloth, the boots a fine but tough leather, customed to my foot and shin. The heavy grey tunic of the same material as the leggings was soft against my skin; it had a cowl neck for warmth. On top of it was to be worn a tougher, longer black tunic, covering me from wrist to knee. Over this was the armor, a leather vest that buckled in front and was tight against my breasts, holding them in place. A belt around my waist secured it all. And finally, hung over my shoulders like a cloak fastened to the armor, was a heavy, fur-lined hood. Black wolf, I was told.

I pulled on my gloves, fastened my gauntlet thought I didn’t need it—I wasn’t going to use a sword for this.

Nahfahlaar sat patient, unbothered. He seemed to understand the needs of us soft mortals, and I could have sworn he nodded when he eyed my armored self.

“Fly,” I commanded. And we were off.

 

Perhaps dragons were as fast as airplanes. The skin of my face certainly made this seem the case. We flew over no towns but straight to the mountains that separated the differing climes of Whiterun and Hjaalmarch holds. When Nahfahlaar had spoken of danger in the area of the setting sun I imagined Markarth or the mountains beyond, or even Hammerfell. But in no time at all Nahfahlaar descended, like a plane, gradually, toward a landscape glowing white by the moonlight. Snow.

Nahfahlaar stopped his descent and he hovered, circling, like a vulture. The air shook, but not from him, not from me. I knew Alduin was not near. I knew this. But something... some _things_ were. I searched for them as certainly Nahfahlaar had planned for me to do, as he likely did. Dragon sense.

The air shook again and I knew, doubtless, that this was from a dragon. An undead dragon?

All I knew was this: near, there was an undead presence; near, there was a dragon; near, there was danger, malevolence.

“ _Laas yah niir_ ,” I sounded. The land did not glow red, I was too far, but I felt life across it all the same. Mice and birds and deer and fish and wild horses and a sabre cat and a dragon and—

“Undead,” I whispered.

My dragon blood whispered to me _undead_ and _not friend_ and _many._ My mind translated this to ‘army of the undead’ and I knew, I knew, I knew.

A great roar sounded. Nahfahlaar lurched, thrusting his wings, giving us height. He replied in turn. A battle of words was to them as a battle of swords was to us. Nahfahlaar breathed fire.

A great _woomf, woomf_ sounded below and I knew a dragon was lifting off. It breathed ice into the air.

Nahfahlaar turned, ascended, turned back, breathed fire.

“ _Yol!_ ” I Shouted, making my presence known.

Movement below gained my attention and I watched as a swarm of insects flowed across the snow-covered ground. Only they were not insects, and they were not flowing.

A stream of ice hit Nahfahlaar’s belly and he roared. With a massive thrust he turned, and we were flying faster than ever back the way we came.

“ _Sonaak,_ ” Nahfahlaar croaked, and I knew his meaning.

Priest. Priest of the dragons.

They served the great beasts, once upon a time. They were buried now, in those crypts, in the ruins, shriveled husks of people.

And they could become draugr, too.

Nahfahlaar flew south, over a herd of mammoth, far, far south, so far I could see the mountain range that marked the Skyrim-Cyrodiil border. I held onto his dorsal spine with my arms, hugging it, willing my body not to slip. Nahfahlaar turned. He flew north, northeast. Home, or I thought, perhaps, High Hrothgar.

The roar of the dragon—not an undead dragon, just a dragon—sounded to the west. It was following us.

“Fly!” I shouted at my dragon-kin. I turned, scanned the sky. The moon shone down upon the sky-borne as well as the land and I saw it, this dragon, dark green and camouflaged against the forested ground, below us.

While hugging onto Nahfahlaar I Shouted down at our pursuant. I Shouted fire, as fire countered ice. I Shouted force, to assert my dominance. And I Shouted for time to slow around me and Nahfahlaar, and the world slowed as we flew, as we fled.

And I realized Nahfahlaar was leading this dragon to my home, to Whiterun city.

I willed him not to. I willed him to return west, north, to fight this dragon elsewhere, on the ground, or to let me onto the ground so I could use magic and Shouts from there. I wished for a saddle, a harness—anything that might keep me tethered to this soaring monster. Reins. I wished for reins.

Nahfahlaar understood, maybe, and turned around. West, west, north. The ice-dragon remained below us, teasing, taunting. Another look down and again I saw the swarm, the undead, the draugr. The dragon priests, or an army of the undead led by dragon priests.

A systemic tingle swept over me. A hatred. A _rage._ Meridia was with me, still, I knew then. In me, of me.

_To be a Champion..._

The undead army let out a roar of its own. Eerie and chilling, a snarl magnified by hundreds.

Hundreds.

Glittering below amongst the swarm signified metal armor, weapons.

And then a Shout thundered, rising from below, from that army. Nahfahlaar swerved, avoiding an invisible missile. I felt _Force_ and I knew it to be the Shout of a Dragon Priest. I knew it to be a test, a show, a postulation.

“ _Fus ro dah!_ ” I Shouted right back at them. Then, “ _Krii!_ ” A threat. A warning.

_I will kill you all._

 

Nahfahlaar turned again east. Perhaps he was right to do so. We needed to warn Whiterun for certainly this was where the draugr were headed.

 _They know_. Perhaps this ice-dragon was their leader. Their leader who knew me, knew where I lived. Perhaps they’d done reconnaissance.

Wonderful.

Ice-dragon roared again, and ascended. Nahfahlaar swerved—I clung to him.

“ _Yol!”_ My fire hit Ice-dragon, and it swerved north, west, south, south, south.

I wasn’t looking ahead, but I knew it as we approached.

Dragons.

From the height of Snow Throat gathered what appeared to be storm clouds, veiling the moon and stars. My heart fluttered but these were normal clouds, not the likes that had covered Nirn so many years ago.

Then lightning struck, illuminating the fortress on the mountain, hitting snow. I watched a rock or snow or water tumble from the mountaintop. Nahfahlaar soared north as lightning struck again—a tree on a hill east of Whiterun. The storm moved fast.

A roar blasted, absolutely shattered my soul. Above, above, above. I looked up, at the billowing clouds, searching, sensing.

“ _Yol!_ ” _I am your kin, dragon. And I will fight if I have to._ Nahfahlaar breathed fire too, echoing my thoughts.

He soared, circling, round and round the city. I looked below to find no one at all and this settled my nerves, somewhat.

They’d made it inside. Into the undercity. A safehouse constructed after the dragons and the vampires came, a place to go if the unfathomable ever became fathomable again.

Nahfahlaar dove, dove, dove, aiming for a patch of open land within the city wall. He landed, and I slid off immediately. My legs were icy rubber and I stumbled, fell to my hands, scuffed them on the cold dirt and gravel. Nahfahlaar’s wings battered me with their jetstream as he took off again, leaving me behind.

I ran, bolted toward the nearest undercity entrance. It was in the Hall of the Undead—ironically. I swung open the temple doors and ran down, down toward the crypts, to the secret entrance Marcurio’s replacement had showed me.

It was locked—that was the point—but there was a cord to pull, an alarm to sound by bell. Three gentle pulls signaled “let me in”. A frantic tugging and mess of bell tongs signaled “the enemy is upon me; gods be with us all.”

I pulled three times.

A woman I did not know opened the eye slot and immediately unlocked the door.

“No time!” I said, but she opened the door anyway. “Tell the Companions and Balgruuf that there’s an army on its way, here,” I told her. “Draugr. They may be just after me and I’ll do my best—I’ll keep them away, if I can. There may be dragons, too. No sense in sending out your warriors. Keep them here, we need fighters with the people.”

“What about the mages?”

I blinked. “Mages?”

“We’ve mages too, you know.”

I blinked again, then shook my head. “No. No time. Keep everyone down, inside, quiet. The mages may be needed for a magical defense—tell them.”

The woman nodded. “I will.”

I grasped her shoulder then turned, ran up and up the stairs. The heavy shelter door closed and latched, echoing, and I slammed shut the temple door as I left.

I made my way back to that clearing and I called him, Nahfahlaar. Their summons was their name, cried out to the sky—simple as that.

A roar sounded, and a Shout of fire illuminated red scales. Nahfahlaar came, descended and—grasped me in his claws. Gently, wary, aware of my softness. But his clutch did squeeze and my breath was shallow. He descended again, on a hill, outside the city walls. He landed as gently as a songbird, and I rolled across grass before coming to a stop.

I had to catch my breath. Nahfahlaar stood by me, watchful, like a wolf protecting its packmate. I clamored to my knees and leaned on him, fingertips gripping a scale ridge.

“Undead,” I said to him in dragonspeak. “Undead army.”

“ _Geh._ ”

“Battle,” I said.

“ _Geh._ ” And then, “Dragons fly. Help dragon-kin.”

“Dragon-kin is help dragons?”

“ _Ni_ ,” he answered, and his fist-sized eye flashed as he gazed upon me. “Dragons is help dragon-kin.”

I looked at Nahfahlaar, puzzled, curious. There were no other dragons helping, that I could see, though I did sense some, somewhere. And Ice-dragon had tried to hurt Nahfahlaar and me, I’d thought. Unless...

“Is ice-dragon enemy?” I asked him.

The iris of Nahfahlaar’s eye constricted, then dilated again. “ _Ni_ ,” he said. “Ice friend.”

The ground quaked and a gust of wind slapped my face. At the top of the hill had landed a dragon, a shadow against the now overcast sky. It did not roar, nor did it attack with ice, though I knew it to be Ice-dragon. It dragon-walked toward us. Nahfahlaar gave no indication that he was uneasy.

Ice-dragon breathed ice into the air, away from us. A greeting, of sorts, I realized.

Dragons were so fucking weird.

A great roar fell from the clouds, echoing, rumbling the world.

“ _Al du in_ ,” said Ice—not a Shout but an utterance. A Shout would have summoned him, Alduin.

Alduin was here.

Lightning lit up the world in a series of quick flashes. Nahfahlaar lifted his wing, sheltering me.

“Undead fly,” said Ice. “Undead fly now here.”

“Know,” uttered Nahfahlaar.

“Friend dragons fly,” Ice added. “Enemy dragons fly.”

Nahfahlaar shot his snout to the sky like a quick, embellished nod.

 _Enemy dragons?_ I thought.

But Ice took off, heading west-ish, toward the undead army.

Without a word of warning, Nahfahlaar once again swept me up into his claws and lifted off. I didn’t want to protest, because I trusted him, but— _jesus christmas pie—_ I did not like this one bit. The cold air battered me and my already nearly-breathless chest.

And then I wondered where Alduin was. Above the clouds—maybe even creating the clouds, the storm. I felt him—distant, but I felt him. I still felt other dragons, too.

Nahfahlaar neared my home again, began a descent. I wondered why we weren’t headed west, to the undead army... and then I saw two dragon-shaped shadows flying right toward us. And they were not friends.

Nahfahlaar breathed fire—fierce and bright, much more fire than he had breathed toward Ice. At Ice, he had flamed as brightly as a single _Yol_ might. Now, he flamed as brightly as _Yol toor shul_ would. And I thought, perhaps, this was how one knew dragon friend from dragon foe, when they ‘fought’ with their words. A gentle burst of fire or ice was a greeting, or perhaps a discussion. A torrent was a warning, an attack.

I did the same as Nahfahlaar, the full Shout, directly at the oncoming dragons. Nahfahlaar roared, the two dragon-shadows roared. They neared. And neared. And neared...

“Nahfahlaar!” I screamed. “ _Yol!”_

He swerved, reared, lifted his one foot forward to brace—

A dragon-boulder slammed into us and the dark world spun. Nahfahlaar squeezed me tight, tighter. I couldn’t breathe. “ _Nah!_ ” I choked out, soundless. Nahfahlaar’s wings thrust and flapped, taking him away from the enemy-dragons—not Alduin, but Alduin-kin, said my blood, said the dragons in my head.

Nahfahlaar turned and flamed at the dragons, and two bursts of fire hit Nahfahlaar’s left wing. He tucked his left foot that held me close to his body, turned, tried to fly away. He began to descend, knowing he couldn’t keep holding me. I watched as the trees increased in size as he dove. I was dizzy from his grip. Down and down but he swerved again, flapped and flapped, hovered, breathed fire at the dragons until one barreled toward us and slammed---

My jaws snapped together, teeth punching teeth. Nahfahlaar’s foot squeezed and— _crunch_ , a rib. No breath in me to wail. A dragon neared and put forth its feet, claws out. Nahfahlaar turned but the dragon dove, spun. Its claw caught my thigh, slicing. I couldn’t scream. Nahfahlaar roared and flapped, flapped, ascended. Lightning shot down and hit a dragon to Nahfahlaar’s left and it reeled in pain, a horrible squeal. More lightning struck a house—my house.

My. House.

Nahfahlaar loosened his grip long enough for me to get air but the action hurt, _hurt_. I huffed in and out despite the pain.

 _Healing magic_. Golden light wrapped itself around me and Nahfahlaar too, his foot that held me. My rib screamed less. I felt happy...

A roar in the distance. A second, closer. Flap, flap. A dragon neared. Nahfahlaar roared in kind but something hit his foot, me. His own claw dug into my gut and I screamed, healed myself on instinct.

I watched as a dragon slammed into another—Ice, maybe, or another dragon-friend. Kin. They tangled, snapped their maws. Fire met ice. One of them screamed—a dragon scream, piercing, visceral. A dragon fell, plummeted, down and down. A dull thud. Nahfahlaar swerved and ascended, turned north, east, south. I caught a glimpse of a fire below—

My house. Fire...

“Nahfahlaar!” I cried. “Ice! Ice house! Down!”

There was no response from him, and no dragon swept over my home to put out the fire. Nahfahlaar flew north again, down, down, headed for a hill I thought, needing to be rid of me.

A great roar sounded to our right and—slam, turn, flip. Nahfahlaar was belly-up in the sky. I watched his tail swish as a dragon swept over us, feet down, claws out, fire streaming...

I could breathe again. The golden belly of Nahfahlaar drew back further and further away as I flew, down, down, a roar in each of my ears, the wind whipping my hair and the tail of my tunic. I reached up at Nahfahlaar, Shouted his name— _catch me, catch me, friend—_ but fire and another dragon veiled him from my sight and I kept flying, faster, lower.

 _Stoneflesh_ , I thought, and my body glowed a brilliant, shimmering turquoise.

The sky above lit up with electricity, and a tendril crawled closer, closer, and closer still until it tapped at my brow and I was

swallowed by the ocean.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: “Dust and Water” by Antony and the Johnsons

 

“Eternity can wait,” the voice whispered in my ear, tickling.

My leaden eyelids would not lift. My arms would not bend, neck would not turn. I expected the pain that should result from a collision with a hard, winter ground, but lacked this sensation completely.

There was, however, the presence at my side, the whisperer. Blades of grass sticking exposed flesh like teasing knives. A tinkling like tiny windchimes, distant as if hanging from the sky. A sound of rushing water far away, likely a waterfall. Then delighted laughter, somewhere, near, and hushed conversation.

Mammoth footsteps approached, heavy and from a height with long strides. The footfalls halted and a rush of air rustled my hair. I knew without knowing that someone, some thing stood at my head, peering down. Nothing in my blood or bone or brain told me to run. I was safe.

But I was not welcome.

“You do not belong here,” the beast boomed above me, rumbling down. My insides quaked, and my dragons fluttered and spun.

“Leave this one be, Tsun,” spoke a gentler voice, though no less thunderous. “She is not your charge.”

“The Sky brought her here,” said a third, “did you not see? The light, Her light. She reached through and pulled her in. To a safe place her body was taken. By her kin, I ken.”

“She is cold,” said the gentle one. “But she is safe. I am with her, as always.”

The giant presence encroached, eyes searing the length of me. The presence backed away. Then, as a bellowing command, the mammoth-voiced demanded, “You claim this mortal’s soul?”

A spark roused me, gave life to my flesh and veins and bones. My eyes opened to find no one, see nothing but a sparkling purple-pink sky—a maelstrom of magic, forming a celestial canopy. This was the tinkling, like thousands of crystals colliding with no more force than dust in the wind.

My skin was alive, but not living. I stood, felt my body, my armor, all intact. Through my thighs, I saw the grass behind me.

I was translucent.

I straightened, and at a distance a figure stood still, in taller grass—green, too green. The figure was in shadow but the shape of it familiar. The figure began an approach.

I stood my ground. A cast of Stoneflesh protected my body. My right hand tingled with gathering electricity.

The figure stopped its approach. I could make out long hair, indented waist. Tall. Shield in one hand and an axe in the other. The figure stepped closer, closer until its ivory flesh and gleaming red hair stepped near enough to recognize her, however lacking opacity.

If I had breath to breathe I would have gasped it.

“I know you,” she said, inquisitive, hesitant.

“Ingjard,” I sobbed out, wanting to run up to her, to jump and throw my arms around her. But the look she gave held me where I was. Her weapon was still drawn and ready.

“Ingjard. Yes. Housecarl, I was, for a time. I have a sister still breathing.” Her eyes narrowed and she repeated, strongly, “I _know_ you.”

I nodded, crying. “Yes, Ingjard. Your sister Eyleif is still alive.” My magic faded and I took one step forward. “She’s doing very well for herself, her and her son, Sighulf. And you do know me. You know me quite well.”

“But I can see you there, still,” she said. “How are you with the dead and with the living in the same moment?”

I wiped my cheeks with the backs of my gloves. “I don’t know. Ingjard...”

“I am Ingjard,” she breathed as if she needed more convincing.

“I’m Deborah. You also knew me as—”

“Deb.” She said my name, but another voice had joined her, lower in pitch. I turned to the sound to find no one. When I turned back to Ingjard, she had approached fully, having made no sound at all. “Deb,” she repeated.

I nodded. “Yes. I am Deb.”

A translucent hand raised to my cheek. Fingers felt the shape of it, the slope to my chin, the fur lining of my hood as it hung behind my head. The fingers nonchalantly followed the length of my body from breast to belt. There, Ingjard pulled her hand away.

“You are not here,” she said, and turned away, walking back the way she came.

I followed. “What do you mean, not here? I can see you. I felt you as you felt me. Where _is_ here?” I asked the question, but I knew the answer. I could not say the word for fear me doing so would rip me out of this dream.

And just as we stepped over a trickling creek, Ingjard vanished. Not a sound, not a remnant. Gone.

I stood alone, boots in the water. Iridescent minnows picked at the leather.

“The memories disturb them,” said the gentle voice I had heard before. I turned to find a tall, curvy woman I did not recognize, barely dressed. She had earth-dark skin and silver hair. And she was decidedly opaque. “Her death, Ingjard’s, was awesome and proud. She awoke in the arms of Shor, celebrated even before her eyes met the stars.”

I stepped out of the creek and toward the woman, slowly. “She knew she would come here,” I whispered.

The woman smiled. “Would you like to see him?”

“Shor?”

“Stenvar.”

I gawked at the woman.

“Come,” she said, and turned. Up from the grass she pulled the skirt of her dress; it shimmered like snow.

Mechanically I followed her, though my mind was still standing by the creek, dumbfounded. In a blink, the landscaped changed and the woman vanished in a cloud of disappearing glitter. Instead of a green meadow I stood at the edge of a cottage, flowers everywhere around it, not unlike the fields I recalled from dreams sent by Meridia. In the center of the blanket of flowers, next to a short statue, stood the unmistakable figure of my husband.

“One for the girl,” he said to himself, voice low. A white petal fluttered to the ground. “One for her boy.” Another petal. “Two for us, and three for those thereafter.” A small flurry of white decorated the toe of his shoe.

“Stenvar?” I whispered. He had to have heard me, there being no other sound but the sky crystals' tinkling. He remained where he was, as translucent as I and Ingjard.

He stood straight, shoulders high, hands at his sides. A plucked flower head and its stem with it plummeted to the ground.

“I have seen this,” he said, still facing away from me. “In a dream, I think. It is difficult to remember.” He squatted down, plucked a pink flower, stood and stepped twice in the direction he faced. The statue, I saw then, was a depiction of Dibella. “Two for the parents,” he said, and two pink petals pinwheeled down. “Two for the formers.” Two more petals. “One for honey—” one petal “—and another for...” He paused, and his head turned. To me, I thought. “What was the other one?” he asked. “I have a craving for honeyed apples. I think I will have some.”

And he turned toward the cottage, dropping the half-plucked pink flower along the way. I followed him. The cottage had no door to it, no glass over its windows. One bed, one chair, a small table and a hearth pit in the center of it all. The fire blazed high but its flames offered no warmth. 

From a cupboard Stenvar pulled a plate overflowing with sliced apples, the whole of it dripping with honey. He set it down at his table, sat on his one chair, and ate. The apples, like him, like me and Ingjard, were translucent. They seemed to disappear the moment they entered his mouth, after the first bite.

“I think you mean Honey,” I said. “And Apple, her colt.”

I stood by Stenvar’s side, then, unacknowledged, until: “You cannot eat.”

I looked down at the apples. “But they do look good,” I said.

“But you are not here.” His answer was given so bluntly, like a fact everyone knew. He continued to eat his honeyed apples.

“Stenvar,” I whispered as tears welled in my eyes. Funny, how I could cry but not breathe. “Stenvar,” I repeated, and reached out to him. My palm swept over his shaved head, drifted to his cheek. I shoved the plate of apples aside and sat on that table’s edge, not caring that I was sitting in a puddle of honey because I was not really here, and neither was the honey.

I held Stenvar’s face between my hands, forcing him to look at me. “Stenvar,” I repeated, tears blurring my vision. “Stenvar, it’s me...”

“Deb,” we said in unison.

The man gave no smile. “She took me in, you know,” he said. “Took me in Her arms and gave me this place. A place within a place. My place within Hers.”

I nodded, and the tears streamed down my cheeks. “Yeah, I guess she did.”

“This is better than the Hall,” he said, looking at me blankly. “Some would disagree. But I like the flowers and the...” He looked away, and I pulled back my hands. “I like the quiet. The Hall is so very boisterous. There is no slumber, there. Only fighting and dying to fight again. I enjoy flowers.”

I looked to the field outside, his front lawn. So many colors—all of them, it seemed. Every single color imaginable.

“I can write, here,” he said, standing and walking to a corner. A lute was there, and a shelf. On the shelf was a single book. Only one quill, only one inkpot. My guess, the book, the quill, the ink, were all everlasting. Infinite pages, infinite ink, the quill never dulling.

Stenvar became a full-time songster in his retirement from Mundus.

He sat on his bed with his lute and played a dirge I recognized. He knew I liked his one. I thought he might remember—me and what I liked—but perhaps he just knew that this was a good dirge and that someone, somewhere, enjoyed it. As he played I looked to the flowers again, thinking about what he had been doing earlier. Plucking, offering each petal to someone.

“One for the girl, one of the boy, and three thereafter,” I repeated.

Five. Our children. _My_ children, three of his blood. He did remember.

I sat next to him on his ordinary, uncomfortable bed. I wrapped my arm around his waist and we sat there, him playing—not serenading—plucking out ditties and dirges alike.

As he played a romantic melody unfamiliar to me, he said, “It is time for you to go.”

I turned to him, terrified, in tears. “I don’t want to leave."

Stenvar stopped playing. He stood, laid the lute on the bed, took my hands to pull me to my feet. His fingertips, rough even as a spirit, caressed my face from brow to chin. He held me in his hands, and pulled me in for a kiss.

Into my ear he whispered, “Now, and forever.”

We kissed again, and with a flash, Stenvar, the cottage, the flowers were gone, and I was in a white, white void, a nothing place, the opposite of anywhere, and yet the air vibrated with possibility.

“No,” said the gnarled voice of a crone, and an even brighter burst of white flashed before me. “It is not yet your time, Champion. Your room is not yet painted.”

The light, all of it, shrank away, and I was left in the aching darkness, alone, solid flesh and bone, shivering.


End file.
